


Captain America and the Great Pygmalion Debacle

by Chianine



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Repression, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chianine/pseuds/Chianine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky absolutely refuses to cut his hair and for the life of him Steve can't understand why.</p><p>The reason?</p><p> <i>There's nothing in this world Bucky loves more than having Steve brush it...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hair Drama and the Eggs

“Come on, Bucky, we gotta do this. It's starting to look like you got rats living in there.”

“No...” Bucky whined, protecting his unholy mess of tangles with his hand, “...hurts... yanking...”

Steve had guessed that whatever grooming Hydra had given the Winter Soldier hadn't been what you'd describe as gentle, as it appeared that his haircut (if you could call it a haircut) had been done with a pocket knife and shaving him had taken more than an hour. If Steve could get him to stay in the bathroom he would flinch or back into a corner every time the razor was brought to his face. When he finally got him to be still, Steve could practically hear Bucky's heart thumping in his chest. This may all seem excessive but it had been more than two weeks of him stinking up the living room and damn it, Bucky was getting cleaned up today, come hell or high water. 

After surviving the shave, Bucky seemed to trust Steve enough to let him wash his filthy hair. Then Steve filled the bathtub with water and handed him a bar of soap. He couldn't be sure what happened in the tub but Bucky definitely came out smelling a lot better. Now it was time to brush that ridiculous hair.

“I'm not gonna hurt you, Buck. I got this tangle spray stuff and we'll go nice and slow. It might take a while but no yanking, I promise.”

Then Steve had an idea. Maybe a distraction would help. It's not like this was something that _had_ to happen in the bathroom.

 

“ _Gold Diggers of 1933!_ You loved this! We went to see it at the old re-run house on Bank St. three times!” Steve figured a Berkeley film would have enough swirling women's legs to keep Bucky's mind occupied, and it would probably take the entire length of it to brush out his hair without hurting him.

Steve sat on the couch and had Bucky sit on the floor between his legs. They looked like a couple of teenage girls but whatever. He sprayed a bunch of the tangle stuff on Bucky's head and was sort of surprised at how well it worked. Science was amazing. He held each gigantic knot in his fist by the root before combing them out, so that Bucky didn't feel a thing. This took ages. Then he brushed through his whole mop, catching little tangles and gently working them out. After he was done, he gave it another few passes just for good measure.

Towards the end, he could feel Bucky's head slowly falling back and his neck seemed as loose as a rag doll. When he finished, he looked over Bucky's head and laughed when he saw his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open. Maybe all that shaving panic had tired him out.

Bucky opened his eyes when he heard Steve laughing. “Why'd you stop?” he asked.

“You're all done, Buck! See, that wasn't so bad, right?”

 

The next morning, while Steve was in the bathroom shaving, Bucky burst in, went through all the cabinets, found the hairbrush, and handed it to Steve. 

“You want me to brush your hair?” Steve asked, face covered in shaving cream.

“Yeah. It needs it.”

“Well, I'm a little busy right this second,” Steve said, though he was happy to see Bucky's new interest in grooming, “but I can do it when I'm done. Here, why don't you brush your teeth while you're waiting.” 

Steve pointed to the mouthwash, toothpaste, and a brand new toothbrush on the sink. Bucky got to work. After swallowing a cap full of mouthwash and coughing for a minute or two, he squeezed half a tube of toothpaste onto his brush, most of which got all over the sink and floor. Then with an eerily determined look on his face, he began brushing his teeth frantically like he was trying to murder his own mouth.

“Hey, Buck, why don't you try using your _real_ arm for that since it's not really a task you need superpowers for.” Steve decided not to introduce Bucky to floss since he'd probably lose a pint of blood sawing into his own gums.

After that was all finished, Bucky sat on the toilet and Steve brushed through his hair. He took his time, making sure it was all clear, brushing up from the bottom and around the sides, careful not to scratch his ears or do anything that would freak Bucky out. 

“All right. You're good. Beautiful,” Steve said, setting the brush down.

“No. It's not finished.”

“Yes, it is. No tangles,” Steve insisted.

“No... please. I'm not done yet.”

Steve sighed. Before the war, Bucky had been really vain about his hair. If one of Bucky's true personality traits were coming back to him, Steve wasn't going to discourage it.

“Okay,” Steve said, then brushed through it a few more times, though he didn't see the point. After a couple of minutes, he set the brush down again. “All right. That's it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, and it almost froze the blood in Steve's veins because he didn't think Bucky knew how to say _thank you_.

“You're welcome, Buck,” Steve answered, impressed.

 

Over the next few weeks, Bucky learned to brush his teeth without violence, shave himself without covering the sink in blood, and bathe himself without being prompted. He even started using a towel before dressing himself. The only thing he still couldn't do was brush his own hair, though it was the one grooming activity he was most concerned with. It had to be done two, sometimes three times a day, and always for much longer than necessary. Seeing all his progress, and assuming Bucky wanted to be more independent, Steve suggested they go to the barber and get his hair cut so it would be easier for him to manage himself. Bucky didn't seem interested. Steve explained that a short haircut would require less brushing, or they could get a haircut that needed no brushing at all. Then Bucky was adamant – _no_. Steve continued to bring it up over the next few weeks, but he couldn't get Bucky into the idea. It made no sense why he still wanted the haircut that Hydra had given him, and to be honest, Steve was tired of looking at it. Then came the day when Steve was due for _his_ regular barber shop visit. He tried to get Bucky to go along.

“Come on Bucky, let's go. I promise, it won't hurt, and you'll feel much cleaner.”

“No.”

Don't you wanna be able to brush your own hair?”

“...”

“You don't wanna go out, is that it? You're with me, you'll be fine.”

“...”

“Fine, then I'm buying some clippers while I'm out and we'll just buzz it off.”

 _“No!”_

“No?” Steve repeated.

“No.”

“You want your hair to stay like that?”

“Yes.”

“Trust me, Bucky, you don't want your hair to look like that. I know you, and you would die before you had your hair that long. I've shown you pictures, and you know you always kept it short and neat. Now let's go. You'll feel more like yourself once it's cut.”

“No.”

 

Steve didn't get the clippers, and he gave up on the barber shop. If Bucky wanted to look like some teenage hippie, then so be it. But Steve decided that he needed to brush his hair himself. As an experiment, Steve started refusing to do it for him. Bucky would hand him the brush, and Steve would tell him to do it himself. This went on for a week, and caused a huge rift in their relationship. Bucky wouldn't stay in any room Steve was in, wouldn't speak to him except to ask to have his hair brushed, and he absolutely refused to brush it himself. Then, on the eighth day, Steve gave in. The experiment failed and Bucky had won. It just wasn't worth it.

“Okay, fine,” Steve said, taking the brush. “But you'll have to go and get that spray stuff since you're hair is as bad as it was the first time we brushed it.” 

As Bucky turned away, Steve could have sworn he saw a smile on his face. The first one he'd seen in seventy years.

 

 

The hairbrushing schedule returned to normal. Twice a day, for way too long. It wasn't a vanity thing, because Bucky clearly wanted Steve to do it. He couldn't understand why, though, until one day, he saw Bucky's reflection in the bathroom mirror while he was having his hair brushed.

He looked transported. Totally blissed out. His mouth hung loose, and his eyelids fluttered every time the brush passed over his scalp. 

Steve stopped. He had to, he was laughing so hard. It all made sense now.

“You really _like_ this, don't you?”

Bucky said nothing, just looked up at Steve with fear in his eyes.

“You do, don't you?” Steve said, “That's why you don't want to cut your hair, and that's why you won't brush it yourself. Am I right?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Yeah... I... yeah it feels good.”

“That's okay,” Steve was still laughing, “just a little weird is all. You could have said something.”

Steve went back to brushing Bucky's hair, chuckling every now and again.

 

 

A few days later, Steve had lunch with Sam. Bucky refused to go, as usual. Over calamari, Steve related the entire drama, which Sam found very amusing.

“I mean, I understand that he _likes it,_ ” Steve said, “but how could anyone like something so much? How could it become so important to him that he refuses to cut it and won't brush it if I don't? And then refuse to speak to me for days because I stopped?”

“I don't know, it makes sense to me,” Sam said. “Look, the guy's probably been beaten, abused, cut into, and at best manhandled for as long as he can remember. Nobody's ever laid a hand on him that cared how he felt. You brushing his hair is probably the only tenderness he's ever known. He loves it, and he's going to hang onto it for dear life.”

Steve hadn't thought of that. It hurt to realize how true this probably was. “But why not just tell me that?”

“Well,” Sam shrugged, “having your hair brushed feels damn good. And I'm sure the Winter Soldier wasn't allowed to feel good. So, maybe he thought he needed to keep it a secret.”

“That's crazy, he knows I want him to be happy,” Steve said.

“Conditioning runs deep, my friend.” Sam chuckled, “I probably shouldn't suggest this to you, but you might be able to _use_ that.”

“What?”

“Well,” Sam shook his head, as if he knew what he was about to say was wrong, “you can bribe him with hairbrushing.”

“Sam, no -”

“- hear me out,” Sam said, “You want to get him out of the house. Go to the movies, the grocery store, have lunch with friends – not the barber shop, you can forget about that – you tell him he gets extra hairbrushing time. Don't take what he already has away from him, but just say you'll do it for ten, fifteen extra minutes. If he loves it as much as it seems like he does, I bet it'll work like a charm.”

“See, that's tempting,” Steve said, “but that makes me feel like he's a pet. Like giving a dog a treat because he's good on a walk.”

“Well, he's been treated like an attack dog for a long time, so that's how his mind works. And you being the one he depends on, he probably sees you as the alpha-dog now. In fact, when you stopped brushing his hair, him keeping away from you might not have been pouting at all. He might have seen your refusal as rejection, and since he has nowhere else to go, he figured he'd just stay out of your way. He kept asking you to do it, to see if you would love him again, and you did.”

Steve swiped a guilt-ridden hand down his face. “That's _so_ not what I intended -”

“- _I_ know! But it's not like you got a normal guy living in your house.” Sam softened his voice, “You gotta face it - he may never be the guy you used to know. And it's not your job to fix that. You can help him heal most of his wounds, maybe, but you can't _make_ him into Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes again.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, give up on the barber shop,” Sam said, “if New Bucky wants to look like Kurt Cobain, let him.”

“Yeah, I already- wait, who?”

Sam gave Steve an incredulous look. “I thought you had Nirvana on that little list of yours.”

Steve frowned. “I haven't been doing much of that lately.”

“Too busy with your new beauty salon?”

“Not funny.”

“Hey, come on, who could have guessed the Winter Soldier could be defeated with a hairbrush?” Sam was cracking himself up, “All that bullshit we went through? And you could've just waved a brush in front of the man's face and he would have chilled the fuck out right then and there!”

“That is even _less_ funny.”

Sam wasn't done. “Come on, man. Lighten up. I can just see it. You, with your shield in one hand and the hairbrush-”

“- no more hair jokes!”

“Okay fine,” Sam said. “I should probably focus on this calamari anyway before Captain America with his three-times metabolism eats it all first.”

 

 

The next day was grocery day. Before using Sam's suggestion, Steve tried to get Bucky to go with him in the normal way - the way that doesn't include bribery – by just asking. 

“I'm going to the store and I want you to go with me.” That wasn't exactly asking, Steve realized, so he added, “Do you wanna go?”

“No.”

“Come on, you can pick out some stuff you like to eat.”

“No, I'll stay here and watch the apartment,” Bucky meekly assured.

Steve was reminded of what Sam had said about Bucky having a canine mentality. He shook that thought away. _Not_ true. “I don't need someone to watch my – _our_ – apartment. I need someone to go to the store with me. Come on, I'll be lonely. You don't want me to be lonely, do you?”

“Isn't there lots of people at stores?”

“Yeah, but – that's not – Bucky, come on. We're going.” Steve clapped twice. “Chop-chop.”

Steve tried to pull him off the couch but Bucky resisted. “My arm. They'll see it.”

“Is that what you're worried about? We'll put a sweater and some gloves on you. It's cold so no one will think anything of it.” Steve smiled sarcastically and put an arm around him. “Plus, hey, you're with Captain America, who's gonna mess with you, huh?”

“You're bringing the shield to the grocery store? Why, is it dangerous?”

Steve rolled his eyes, “No, Bucky -” Steve sighed. “Just come with me. Please?”

“No.”

Okay. Steve had done his best. “Look,” Steve said, “If you go with me, when we get back, I'll put on a movie, and I'll brush your hair through the whole thing.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“I mean it, I swear. Scout's honor. A whole movie's worth of hairbrushing.”

“Okay.”

 

The grocery store wasn't a _complete_ success, but Steve still counted it as a win since Bucky left the house, the errand was finished, and no one got killed or arrested.

All Bucky did was follow Steve with the cart, his sweatshirt hood up and his head down. Eventually he ran into a lady and Steve had to apologize and tell her that Bucky had mental problems, which wasn't actually a lie. Steve took over cart duty after that. When another lady offered him a sample Bucky startled and fell back into a pyramid display. After that Steve just held his hand the rest of the time. Any food item Steve offered him, Bucky would just say _yeah_ to without looking at it. That was frustrating, but Steve figured that food variety was probably still a little overwhelming for him. At the checkout, Bucky stood over the bagger, eying him suspiciously as if the kid might slip an IED into one of the bags. 

On the way home, one of the bags Bucky was carrying broke open and a glass jar shattered on the sidewalk. Bucky looked like he was going to cry, like it was all his fault. Steve thought maybe Bucky was right to be wary of the bag kid since he clearly overloaded that bag. They picked up the glass and continued walking, but Bucky wouldn't let it go.

“Maybe you shouldn't brush my hair tonight.”

“What, why?”

“Because the bag -”

“-Bucky, that wasn't your fault. I'm brushing your hair tonight. I said I would, and I will. Enough.”

 

 

When they got home, Steve started putting groceries away. He told Bucky to get his hairbrush and pick out a DVD.

Bucky came back with _Die Hard with a Vengeance_. He showed it to Steve. Steve hadn't been able to enjoy that movie, and he was sure Bucky would like it even less. They had both seen enough of that in their lives. 

“Bucky, that's not a good choice for you. Try to find something that doesn't have an explosion on the cover. In fact, you can just throw that one in the trash can.”

A few minutes later Bucky returned with _Lawrence of Arabia_.

Steve laughed. “Okay, that's a really good movie, but I'm not brushing your hair for three and a half hours. Maybe next time when we go to the store and you actually pick out food for yourself, then we'll do that one.”

When he came back the next time, he had _Some Like it Hot_.

“That works,” Steve said, bending over to put the eggs in the fridge.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked.

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm putting the eggs away.”

“No,” Bucky said, “they don't go there. They go in the cupboard.”

Steve's heart skipped a beat. “What did you say?”

“The eggs. They go in the cupboard, not the icebox, Steve.”

Steve stood up, leaving the fridge door open, and set the eggs on the counter. He took Bucky by the shoulders. _“You remember that? Do you? Do you remember how we used to fight about that?”_

“Fight about what?”

“The _eggs_!” Steve was shaking Bucky with every word, and his excitement was obviously freaking Bucky out a little bit, but there was no way he could contain it. “The eggs, Bucky, the eggs! We used to fight about the eggs! I know you remember, that's why you said that!” 

“I don't remember. All I know is the eggs go in the cupboard.” 

“Yes, you _do_ remember! That apartment we had, on Myrtle, when we moved out together! We had a tiny icebox and I always put the eggs in there because that's what my mom did and you would take them out and put them in the cupboard because that's what your mom did! We fought about it all the time!”

“I don't know,” Bucky said, “I wanna remember but I can't. I don't know why I said that. I just felt bothered watching you put them in the icebox.”

“It's okay,” Steve said, wrapping his arms around Bucky's shoulders. “It's enough. It's more than enough.” Steve squeezed him hard for a few more moments and then said, “Look, you wanna watch _Lawrence of Arabia_ , let's do it. I'll brush your hair all night if you want me to.”

From then on, the eggs stayed in the cupboard. Bucky would always have his way, in the end.


	2. Appropriate Public Behavior, Francis Bacon, and the Reason Steve isn't Talking to Bruce for a While

The bribery method was working its magic. Bucky now left the house on nearly a daily basis, sometimes with the promise of only a few more minutes of hairbrushing. Steve, for his part, really wasn't that put off by it anymore. He enjoyed finding new ways to spice it up. You couldn't just pass a brush from the front to the back of a person's scalp over and over again without getting bored, especially if you were doing it through the entire length of _Dances with Wolves_ (a film they were _definitely_ not watching again). He would brush it all to one side and then straighten it out again, then brush it in a different direction, or down in front of his face, or, now that it was long enough, he would brush sections of it all into his hand like a ponytail. He even thought about learning how to braid but - no, that was going too far. 

Bucky was always up in the morning to get his hair brushed before Steve went out. This became routine for both of them. One night, after staying up til the wee hours on a _Star Trek_ binge (they both loved the show and both agreed that Dr. McCoy was a third wheel and a pain in the ass) Bucky slept soundly while Steve was dressing and preparing to leave. He kept waiting for Bucky to get up on his own, and when he had almost run out of time, Steve considered waking him. That's when it struck him – he really _liked_ brushing Bucky's hair. This man, who had been a cocky playboy and a terrifying soldier in his past lives was like putty in Steve's hands if they held a hairbrush. It was wrong to feel that way, he knew, so he tried not lose sight of the goal – to get Bucky to find a girl Steve could pass hairbrushing duty onto.

That meant going out and getting Bucky used to people and people things. See, Bucky was the opposite of Steve in many ways. When Steve joined the twenty-first century, he had no problems relating to people, just the world of new gadgets they lived in. Bucky, on the other hand, could work any piece of technology you put in front of him. He showed Steve a dozen apps on his phone he hadn't known he had, he fixed the television when it broke, and Steve seriously suspected that he was doing hackerish things with his laptop when he borrowed it. But if a couple of girl scouts offered him a box of cookies, or if a neighbor said hello on the stairwell, or even if Steve told him to answer the phone, it was a complete disaster. Bucky would clam up, stare in fear, or react in some aggressive way that made Steve worry about him ever being in public alone. Once, they went for a picnic in the Botanical Gardens and Bucky almost punched a Labrador’s head off when it came running at their picnic blanket. After that Bucky peed in the koi pond and tried to climb the Japanese gazebo “to get a better vantage point for mapping the vicinity” because he didn't think the guide from the visitor center was scaled accurately. But this was nothing compared to the Francis Bacon exhibit. It wasn't exactly disastrous, but it opened a whole can of worms that could never, ever be sealed away again.

 

 

The National Gallery of Art was hosting an exhibition of Bacon paintings that were on world tour. Steve wanted to go, and he figured it would be a great chance for Bucky to get some more people exposure. Boy was he wrong.

Their tickets to see the exhibit were for 1:15, and since they had about forty-five minutes to spare, Steve thought they could go and check out the 19th Century American gallery. Perusing the rooms leisurely, Steve would stop now and again to look at a painting. Every time he did that he could feel fingertips tickling his palm, trying to clasp on.

“Bucky, stop it!” Steve hissed, trying to respect the quiet atmosphere and let Bucky know what a pest he was being at the same time.

“I wanna hold your hand.”

“I said _no._ ”

Bucky, pressed up against Steve and speaking directly in his ear after he had already been reminded twice to keep his voice down, said, “I might get lost.” 

“Why would you get lost?” Steve asked, “You have better instincts than _I_ do. You couldn't get lost if I dropped you in the middle of the Sahara Desert.”

“There's lots of people here.”

“Which is _exactly_ why we're not holding hands, and...” Steve pushed Bucky back with his arms, “try to remember personal space.”

As Steve began walking towards the next room, he felt a hand tuck itself into the waistband of his jeans. He turned around and slapped it away, causing a loud echo. “I said personal _space!_ ” He couldn't help raising his voice this time. “And keep your hand out of my pants!” As they passed through the entrance of the next room, Steve smiled at the guard raising an eyebrow at them. 

“See?” Steve said, “You're drawing attention to us. What did I say about keeping a low profile?” Bucky didn't seem to have much of a knack for that, come to think of it. His fighting technique had mostly been standing in the middle of the road, tearing cars apart and now that he wasn't doing that he was peeing in front of children and feeling guys up in the museum. “I'm kind of a celebrity, in case you didn't notice. You don't want pictures of Captain America holding hands with some guy all over the internet, do you?”

“Why not?”

“ _Because_... look, Bucky. We're _not_ holding hands. It's not appropriate, that's the end of it.” 

Then, changing the subject to the painting they were standing in front of, Steve said, “John Singer Sargent. What a master! Look at those rocks and the water... it has the realism of a photograph but a thousand times more vibrant and -”

Bucky tapped his shoulder, “Look... ,” he was pointing at a mother reading a plaque to her young son. “ _They're_ holding hands.”

“That is _totally_ different,” Steve said.

“Why?”

“ _Because it's her kid!_ Parents hold hands with their children. That's normal.”

 

 

They still had about thirty minutes, and since Bucky seemed more interested in physical contact then the paintings of 19th century American painters, Steve thought they could go and check out the contemporary art gallery.

“Who's that?” Bucky asked, looking at the oversized silk screen print that graced the entrance.

“Who, the woman in the picture or the artist?” Steve was walking up to read the plaque.

“Both.”

“The woman is... Marilyn Monroe. She's in _Some Like it Hot_ , which you still haven't seen, and the artist is Andy Warhol. His name sounds kinda familiar...” 

“Why is it all colored in like that?” Bucky asked, crinkling his nose.

“I don't know, Buck. I don't understand most of this stuff. I thought _you_ might like it.”

After being baffled by what looked like piles of trash, huge steel slabs, and paper-mache penises, they passed into another room labeled _Abstract Expressionism._ Bucky was immediately drawn to one painting, and he stood in front of it, transfixed.

“Mark Rothko,” Steve said, reading the plaque.

“I think it's beautiful,” Bucky said, not looking away from it.

“Really?” Steve squinted at the painting, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don't see what's beautiful about a bunch of blurry squares.”

“It's like, the colors, and the shapes, “Bucky said, “they're like pure human feelings. No meaning, or reason; nothing behind it, they're just there, being what they are.”

Steve looked inquisitively at Bucky, surprised at his sensitive insight, then back at the painting. “Wow Buck, I didn't really see it that way, I guess I -”

“- Look, _they're_ holding hands!” Bucky said, pointing out a middle-aged man and woman gazing at another square painting.

“They're a couple, Bucky. We're not a couple.”

Bucky was nonplussed. “Couple means two. We're two people, so -”

“- no. They're in a relationship. We don't have a _relationship_ we have a _friendship_.”

“What's the difference? How do you know?”

“Because it's a man and a woman.” Steve explained, “It's normal to see a man and a woman holding hands.”

Bucky was not accepting this. “You held my hand in the store. Why won't you do it here?”

“You were causing havoc! I _had_ to!” Steve could see Bucky's mind working. “Oh no,” Steve said, putting a stop to any mischievous ideas, “Don't even _think_ of doing anything crazy here.” Steve sighed, “Look, if you can keep it together today, I'll let you pick out a movie and brush your hair while you watch it. Sounds good?”

“ _My Fair Lady_.” 

“Fine. _My Fair_ \- why does it always have to be a three hour movie with you?”

“It's a musical,” Bucky replied defensively.

“Then what's wrong with _Oklahoma_ or _Paint Your Wagon_?”

“I don't like Westerns.”

“Fine. _My Fair Lady_ it is.”

They arrived at the Bacon exhibit a few minutes early and had to wait in line. Steve was looking through the information guide when Bucky whispered in his ear.

“Steve, look.” He was pointing at two young women, art students by the look of them, holding hands and swinging their arms together, obviously excited to see the exhibit. “Are they a couple?”

“Bucky, no – or, maybe, I don't know,” Steve shook his head, “the point is, they're _girls_. Girls are more affectionate than guys are. It's not weird to see two girls holding hands, but with guys, it's different.”

Right then, as if on cue, a class of elementary students walked by. They were led by their teacher, and every single one of them, including boys, were holding hands with another student. 

“Look!” Bucky exclaimed.

“Bucky,” Steve rolled his eyes, “they're like, _seven_. Their teacher's making them do that. It's called the buddy system. They hold hands so they won't get lost.”

Bucky's eyes got as big as dinner plates. “ _I_ don't want to get lost. Why can't _we_ have a buddy system -”

“- because _We're. Grown. Men! We're not holding hands!_ ” Steve was gritting his teeth, getting right into Bucky's face. Bucky looked utterly scolded, and when Steve glanced around, he saw the two young girls staring. But they weren't looking at Bucky, they were glaring at Steve, like he was some kind of cruel, unloving boyfriend. Steve went back to his guide, feeling like crap, and Bucky stayed quiet for a while. 

A few minutes later, they were ushered inside. 

“It's really crowded in here,” Bucky whispered anxiously.

“Yeah, well, it's a popular exhibit. You'll be fine, just stay close.” Then Steve added, “Close with a consideration for personal space. No touching.” Steve, trying to get Bucky focused on the art rather than the crowd of people, started reading from the information guide. “Irish-born Francis Bacon spent most of his young life traveling and working odd jobs. While some of his work had already caught the attention of the art community, it wasn't until his mid-thirties, with _Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion_ that the artist really found his voice. Then, in -”

“- Steve! Look! _Look at that!_ ” Bucky almost shouted, and when Steve saw what he was pointing at, he was sure the universe was playing some kind of joke on him, determined to sabotage his attempts at teaching Bucky normal public behavior.

It was two grown men. Holding hands. 

“See, Steve, everyone in this place is holding hands besides us,” Bucky said accusingly.

“Bucky, they're a couple, just like the people we saw upstairs,” Steve said, “only... two men.” Steve regretted the poor explanation of couplehood that he had given in the Rothko gallery. “And _stop_ pointing at people, it's rude.”

“If they're a couple,” Bucky reasoned, “then _we're_ a couple.”

“No,” Steve said, “that's not how it works. They're _gay_ , we're not.”

“Why aren't _we_ gay?”

“Because we're _not_. I'll explain it to you when we get home,” Steve said, then began walking towards _Three Figures_ to cut the discussion off.

 _“Why aren't we gay, Steve?_ ” Bucky's voice dominated the quiet murmurs of the crowd, and some people turned to look. 

Steve was mortified. He gestured angrily for Bucky to come over. “Okay, fine. _Fine!_ You wanna hold hands so bad? Here, take my hand. _Take it!_ ” Bucky instantly clasped on. “There, are you happy? Now will you relax and try to enjoy the exhibit with me?” Bucky nodded, and Steve went on reading, “... with _Three Studies_ , Bacon discovered the possibilities of the triptych, and this format would be utilized throughout the many phases of the artist's career...”

To his surprise, no one seemed to care that Steve was holding hands with another grown man. No one gave them weird looks, and it made him feel sort of silly for making such a big deal out of it. Bucky seemed calmed by it, and besides the soupiness building between their palms due to Bucky's death-grip, they were having a reasonably good time. 

After trying to make sense of _Three Figures_ they passed into another room that, according to the guide, housed all of the _Head_ series for the first time in history. After a second in the room Steve couldn't understand why anyone would consider having all these screaming and mutated faces in one place an accomplishment worth noting. The next room wasn't much better; after subjecting Bucky to several images of popes in a meat locker Steve realized that Bruce had been playing a joke on him when he suggested this exhibition as a good outing. He should have that guessed that when he heard Tony snickering in the background.

“Okay, so these are his later years,” Steve said, allowing himself a sigh of relief, “when apparently he focused on portraits of his friends.” They were basically alone in the room, having moved ahead of the crowd that was more interested in the mangled-and-dismembered-bodies phase of the artist. “This triptych has Richard Dyer as it's subject, Bacon's dear friend and... lover.”

“His what?” Bucky asked.

“His lover. He was gay, Bucky. Unapologetically so, the guide says.” Steve exhaled, blowing his cheeks out, pretty much ready for anything at this point. Here he was, holding hands with his best friend, gazing at the art of a self-proclaimed, unapologetically gay man.

Bucky took a step forward to inspect the painting, “He's vomiting... in a toilet.”

“Yeah...” Steve went on with the guide, “Bacon claims that he met Dyer when the younger man, from a family of hardened criminals, tried breaking into his flat – _Bucky don't touch the painting!_ ” Bucky instantly stepped back and reattached himself to Steve's hand. “I'm not going to tell you the rest of the story because it's depressing. Are you hungry?”

“They're like us, Steve.”

“What? I asked you if you were hungry. Let's get out of here.”

“They're like us. I'm a hardened criminal and you're an artist. And that's how I found you. I broke into your apartment.”

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head, “no, no, no. You're not a hardened criminal, and I'm certainly not an artist. Now did you want to check out that Chinese place we saw on the way over here or not?”


	3. The Tent

Steve was resting on top of Bucky's pillow and the blankets that stayed more or less permanently strewn across the couch. After the exhausting day at the museum and a big lunch, Steve wanted nothing more than a nap. Of course that was _not_ going to happen.

“Steve?”

“Mmm-hmm?” Steve said, keeping his eyes closed.

“Are you gonna tell me what you said you were going tell me about, at the museum? About the men we saw? And why we're not gay?”

Steve sighed and lifted his head. “Okay. Most people – us included – are attracted to members of the opposite sex. Girls like guys and guys like girls. Some people, though, are different. They're gay, they like people of the same sex. It's that simple. Not much more to say about it.” Steve's head fell back on the pillow with a thud.

“So you're saying that you like girls?”

“Yep.”

“And me, I'm the same way. I like girls.”

“Oh yes,” Steve laughed. “if there was ever a fella who liked girls, Buck, it's you.”

“For being a couple with?”

“Well... I don't know about that. You liked to play the field. There wasn't a girl in Brooklyn that could resist you and you took full advantage of that. Sometimes – more than one at a time. It was pretty impressive. And what a kiss-and-tell you were, geez. I had to hear about every single thing...”

“What things?”

“Like, sex things, Bucky. Sex. You liked having sex with girls. A lot.”

“Only girls?”

“ _Yes!_ Only – well, I mean, I don't know, maybe you did experimental stuff that I didn't know about, but I highly doubt that.” Steve shook his head. “Trust me Bucky, you were the straightest guy I knew.”

“And we – I mean you and I – we never -”

“- _no!_ No, Bucky, we never -” A very deeply buried memory surfaced in Steve's mind. He groaned. It was a dilemma. It would be wrong not to tell Bucky the absolute truth – no one should be lied to about their own past – but telling this story might only confuse him even further. Steve began laughing at the absurdity of the situation. “Okay, maybe one time - _one time,_ Bucky – we sorta, kinda, gave each other hand jobs.” Steve was groaning and laughing still, shaking his head. This was a bad idea, but it was too late. Bucky was going to want an explanation.

“What?”

“Hand jobs, Bucky. We jerked each other off.” Steve slung an arm over his face, embarrassed for them both.

“What's that?”

“You know, like when you get excited, in your pants? And you take care of the problem with your hand?”

“Yeah, I do that in the bathtub,” Bucky corrected.

“Okay, I didn't need to know that but, whatever, it's fine.” Steve went on, “Well we did that, to each other.” Steve made a crossing gesture with his fingers and then got up on his elbows to look Bucky straight in the eye. “But we were very young, and it only happened _one time._ Also, there was moonshine involved, and there's no accounting for the antics of _drunk children._ After it was over we both solemnly swore never to tell a single soul, so in a way I'm sort of breaking my promise to you by even talking about this right now.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, it was summer, we were in our tent, in your parents' living room -”

“- no, from the beginning.”

“ _I'm telling you_ \- we were in our tent -”

“- no. Tell me how we met.”

“How we _met?_ Geez Buck, that's going back a little far.” Steve shrugged, “Okay, it was... third grade? Second grade, maybe? Yeah second grade. Mrs. Whittier's class. You had just moved to the neighborhood and it was your first day at our school. Anyway, there were these jerks in our class who would pick on me and hassle me, rough me up sometimes. They had me cornered in the bathroom, and you came in and kicked one of them right in the butt and then you punched another kid in the ear. I remember he ran out of the bathroom crying. And, well, after that, we were best friends.”

Bucky was fascinated. “And then?”

“And then? Well, and then we were best pals. We hung around together all the time. My mom loved you because you looked after me and your parents liked me because they thought I kept you out of trouble. Which wasn't true at all. I just helped you find ways of not getting caught. In the summertime, when school was out, we would spend all day every day together. We were inseparable. We would run wild all day, and then sleep over at each other's houses at night. It was great.” Steve smiled at the reminiscence, then frowned. “Anyway, that's how the thing in the tent happened...”

“The tent?”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugged, “It's a kid thing. You build tents in the living room, and then sleep inside of them.”

Bucky was confused. “Why would you -”

“- I know, I know, it's silly, but we loved it. We would get out our parents' linen and drape it from, say, a lamp, all the way to the couch and tuck it between cushions, and then tie it to a chair, and then put a broomstick in the middle to hold it up. It was the closest two working class kids in Brooklyn could get to camping.”

“Camping in the living room...” Bucky was furrowing his brow and gazing at the floor in the center of the room, as if he was trying to imagine doing such a thing.

“Yeah,” Steve said. It was sad. The concept of doing things purely for fun seemed to be lost on Bucky. “Anyway, back to the night in question. It all started with the armpit farts.”

“The _what?_ ”

“Armpit farts,” Steve repeated, fully realizing how ridiculous he sounded. “Some of the kids on your block had taught you to do this stupid thing where you make fart sounds come out of your armpit, and you were completely jazzed about it. I thought it was disgusting but you were obsessed. That was kinda you all over, Bucky. You were – well honestly Bucky, you were sort of a gross kid. There wasn't a dare you would back down from, no matter how dumb. I've seen you snort worms up your nose and almost puke, eat dirt, fart on your hand and smell it, shoot snot rockets, you name it. And all in front of girls who still wanted to make out with you afterward. It was a complete mystery. I've even seen you drink out of the toilet a few times.”

Steve looked at Bucky to see how he was taking all this new information about himself. He looked guilty, and sort of worried.

“Wait, “Steve said, “you haven't been doing that _here,_ have you?”

Bucky's voice cracked, “Sometimes I get thirsty in the bathtub -”

“- _oh god!_ ”

“- and the water in the bath is too warm so I -”

“- Bucky do _not_ drink out of the toilet! _Ever!_ That's what the sink is for.” Steve rubbed his eyes in disbelief, and though he didn't really want to know, he had to ask, “What do you do, just scoop it out with your hand?”

“No, there's a cup on the counter -”

“- you use my _cup_? Like you dip it into the _toilet_?” Steve shouted.

“...”

“Look, don't do that anymore. That's disgusting. I'm surprised you don't have worms. I'm surprised _I_ don't have worms. _Use the sink._ ”

“Okay.”

Steve made a mental note to throw the cup away and then wondered what other weird things Bucky was doing that he didn't know about.

“Steve, what happened in the tent?”

“Oh yeah,” Steve said, remembering the story. “Well, it was the summer after... fifth grade I think? We were like, eleven. And on this particular night we were sleeping over at your house, and since it was a weekday, your dad, who did construction, had to get up at five the next morning. We were in the living room, in our tent, and you were making these horrible armpit farts -”

“- how?” Bucky asked.

“How – what, how do you make armpit farts?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you sort of... put your hand in your armpit and pump your arm up and down. It's stupid, Bucky, I don't really know how it works. You were trying to get me to do it but I couldn't.”

“Show me.”

“Show you? Okay, here goes nothing,” Steve said. He got up, took his shirt off, and made a pathetic attempt at armpit farts. Nothing was exactly what happened. There was no sound, and Bucky was looking at him like he had lost his mind. “See? I told you, it's stupid. You look stupid doing it and it's even worse if you can make that sound. Anyway, you were really going for it, working up a sweat and you even figured out how to get your hand wet with spit so that they were even louder.”

Steve paused to put his shirt back on and lay back down on the couch, tucking his feet behind Bucky who was sitting at the other end. “They were so loud, in fact, that you woke your dad up, and he came out with the belt and threatened to give you a whipping if you didn't knock it off. Your old man was kinda tough on you and you would always be really sore after getting scolded. You were pouting for a while, and then you cheered up and got an idea. An idea that I should have put a stop to, but, well,” Steve frowned, “I could never really say no to you. I looked up to you, and anything you wanted to do, I would always go along with.” Remembering the hand-holding episode earlier that day, Steve laughed, realizing that not much had changed.

“Steve?”

“Oh yeah - sorry, got a little distracted. Your old man was a drinker, and you knew he hid a jar of moonshine in the toolbox he took to work with him everyday. So after we could hear him snoring again in the bedroom, we went in the toolbox and got it -”

“- moonshine?”

“Yeah, it's like really strong liquor. It was awful, tasted like a rubbing alcohol. Come to think of it, it's probably the only thing that would work on two guys like us now... and for a couple of kids, well, we didn't need a whole lot of it to get completely destroyed. After we had had about as much as we could stand, we put it back and started horsing around in the tent. We were wrestling, knocking the tent apart, and things just went from there. Eventually we wound up with our hands in each other's briefs.” Steve sighed, “I don't know, it was like, since the tent had fallen, we were in total darkness, in this tiny space, and it felt like there was only me and you in the whole universe. It didn't really seem wrong, or even strange. It wasn't til it was all over that we realized what we had done. And even then, it wasn't weird. We just decided to keep it a secret and shook on it. It was never mentioned again. Until now.”

Bucky stared into space for a moment and asked, “That was all? We just – did that, just with our hands?”

“Well,” Steve combed his hands through his hair uneasily, “I think there was a little kissing going on, come to think of it. Yeah, we were kissing.”

“You kissed me?”

“No, actually you kissed me first, but I didn't exactly... stop you, so... and it doesn't really matter who kissed who first, and I was definitely kissing you back so -” Steve cut off this ridiculous argument he was having with himself, “the point is, we were _kids,_ and we were _drunk_. At that age, you're still trying to understand your body and try new things. We shared everything, Bucky, so it makes sense that we would share that, too.”

“Did _you_ like it?”

“Did I like it?” Steve considered the question, “Well, yeah, why not? It was the most sexual experience I had had up til that point. Not you, of course. You had already been really far with a couple girls.” Steve laughed, “In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you were just taking pity on me.”

“So that was it... just the kissing... and the hands?” The way Bucky was asking, it was like he knew Steve was still holding something back.

Steve scratched his neck and decided, what the hell. “Yeah, maybe you went down on me a little bit, and maybe I did the same for you. Things got a little out of control. We were drunk, and things were getting pretty hot and heavy under the sheet.”

“What do you mean, _went down_?”

“I mean, you took me, you know, down there,” Steve pointed at his crotch, “into your mouth, and then I did the same thing for you.”

“Did you like that?”

“Did I – yeah, of course! Everybody likes that!”

“But you don't want to do it again...”

“ _What?_ ” Steve jumped up into a sitting position and threw his legs off the couch, “ _No_ , Bucky, no.”

“Why not?” Bucky asked softly, “I do.”

“No you don't.”

“Yeah, when I'm in the bathtub, I think about -”

“ _Whoa!_ ” Steve put his hands up, trying to shield himself from whatever Bucky was just about to confess. “Whoa, just stop right there. _No, you don't._ ”

“Yeah,” Bucky insisted, “I do.”

“Nope,” Steve shook his head, “No you don't. You like girls, Buck. Maybe it's time for us to go out and meet some. You've been holed up in this apartment, and when you do go out, the only person you talk to is me. I'm the only human contact you have, and you're getting confused. But we can change that. When you meet some girls, and you talk to them, and smell them, touch them and take them on the dance floor, you're going to realize that that's what you really want.”

Bucky was shaking his head, narrowing his eyes at Steve. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Steve said, “Yes. _Yes, yes, yes._ End of discussion.”

They needed to move on from this. Steve could not have had a worse idea than telling this godforsaken story. “Go get your hairbrush,” he said, “I thought you wanted to watch _My Fair Lady._ ”

 

 

 

Bucky was sitting on the floor, between Steve's legs, completely involved in the movie. So involved, in fact, that he didn't nod off, as he usually did, and didn't even complain when Steve took a break from brushing.

“He's just like you, Steve,” Bucky said at one point.

“Like who?”

“ _Him_ ,” Bucky answered, pointing at the screen, “and I'm like the girl. She's always trying to be perfect, to do what he wants, to think and act like he wants, but she can't. He's never happy. And when she does do right, it's not real.”

“What?” Steve didn't know what to say. This was the second time today that Bucky had drawn some sort of comparison between them and other people, real or fake. He supposed it was good that Bucky was making these connections and expressing himself, but the gay artist/hardened criminal thing was bad enough and now Steve compared to some uptight jerk that wears a teacup on top of his head and starves women.

“And look, he's even gonna make her go dancing, and pretend she's someone else,” Bucky continued, “just like you're saying I have to.”

“Bucky, I'm not making you pretend to be someone else,” Steve said, “I want you to find yourself and I'm just trying to help you do it. If anything it's the people you were with for so long that turned you into something else -”

“- something you don't like," Bucky said. "Sometimes I think you want me to leave...”

“- hey, turn around,” Steve said. When he had Bucky's full attention, Steve went on, “Don't ever say that again. You can stay here as long as you need to, or want to, actually. I _like_ having you here. And I do like you, just the way you are.” Bucky seemed unconvinced, but it was true. Steve hadn't thought about what would happen if Bucky recovered himself completely, became fully independent, found a girl, and moved on. Steve would be left all alone again. He did everything with Bucky, even if it was occasionally stressful. Bucky was his whole world, just as he had been when they were kids. He had spent so much time thinking about how Bucky needed him, he hadn't considered that maybe he needed Bucky just as much.


	4. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Anxious

Besides the occasional chat or lunch meet-up with Sam, Steve hadn't had any contact with his friends or comrades in several months. There was really no need – the planet, the country, even the city was reasonably safe and he could imagine that lots of people might be sore at him for destroying SHEILD and welcoming an assassin into his life with open arms. The rumors about Bucky's involvement in the death of Tony's parents were sorta hard to ignore so he wasn't surprised that he hadn't been invited to any of the massive parties at Stark Tower. Not that he would really know what do with himself at one of those things, anyway.

Then, one day, as he and Bucky were reviewing bathroom items and their appropriate uses – some highlights being that lotion is not to be substituted for hair conditioner and shaving cream is not bubble bath – Steve's phone rang. It hadn't happened in so long, that Steve didn't even recognize the sound of it. 

“- I'm glad we figured out what the problem was because your hair has been so greasy and clumpy that I started thinking there was something wrong with your head. I mean the outside, not the - you can't put that stuff on your hair -”

“It smells good.”

“Well, the conditioner smells good, too. If you don't like it, you can pick something out next time we go to the market.”

“Steve -”

“- really Bucky, it's like you can't be left alone in the bathroom -”

“- Steve!”

“What?”

“Your phone is ringing.”

Steve rushed out to living room where it had been resting on the charger for almost a week. “Hello?”

“Hello, Captain Rogers?” He was greeted by a bright British accent.

“Speaking.”

“Yes, this is Jarvis, I'm an assistant of your friend and associate, Mr. Stark.”

The robot. After all they had been through and then six months of not even speaking to him, Tony had his _robot_ drop him a line. “What can I do for you?” 

“Well, I'm to notify you that your presence is being requested by Mr. Stark. He is organizing an informal gathering to present his latest project to interested persons, such as yourself.”

“What project?” Steve asked. He knew that Tony had been cooking something up, because the last time he spoke to Bruce he was staying at Stark Tower, 'helping Tony work out some kinks' in the next development phase of his suit. 

“I have been instructed not to reveal any details, Sir. Mr. Stark wishes it to be a surprise.”

So Tony thought Steve was just going to drop everything and run to New York to see Tony's new science experiment, even though he couldn't get on the phone and invite Steve himself. “I really can't,” Steve said, “I don't have the means for a plane ticket and a hotel, so -”

“- Travel arrangements have already been provided for you. You have first class seats tomorrow morning, 11 am on American Airlines, with a return flight leaving on Sunday evening.” Jarvis said, “Also, Mr. Stark is accommodating all of his guests here, in their respective suites.” 

Steve didn't really like being cut off, or having his life planned for him. And even if he was interested in a weekend with Tony's ego in his Manhattan palace, there was still Bucky to think about. “Well, that's real swell of him, and tell him I said so. Wish him good luck on his project for me – whatever it is – and let him know that I can't make it.”

“Am I to take it that you are declining his invitation?” Jarvis asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it because of your ward, Sir?”

“What?”

“Your ward? Sergeant Barnes? Mr. Stark had mentioned that this may be your reason, as he is fairly certain that your schedule is clear. He did take such matters into account during the planning of the event.”

Steve could not believe he was being questioned about his personal life by a robot. “That is absolutely none of your business! Or Stark's, for that matter!”

“Very well, sir, I'm sorry if I have offended you. I will relay the message.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Steve regretted that he couldn't slam the phone down. You just didn't get the same amount of satisfaction from tapping a button on a little screen.

Steve returned to the bathroom, and to more important things. Bucky was sitting on the toilet, clipping his toenails.

“See, that's why I keep stepping on little sharp things every time I come in here. I told you, do that over the trash can, or out on the patio.” Then Steve held up the bottle of conditioner like someone in a commercial and said, “After you rinse the shampoo out of your hair, you put this stuff on, then you rinse _all of it_ out. If you want long hair, you need to take care of it -”

The phone was ringing again. The interruption was irritating but Steve was glad you could at least still slam a bottle of conditioner down to let out a little frustration.

Steve stomped back out to the living room and wasn't surprised to see Tony's personal cell phone number on the caller ID. “Hello?” he said.

“Rogers, I need you to come up here,” Tony said. “I've got something I want you to see.”

“Like I said before, Tony, no can do. But thanks for calling me yourself. I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Yeah, you really should. Especially after Jarvis told me how rude you were to him.”

“I can't believe -”

“- hey, Steve, I don't mean to cut you off right before you get into a tirade about my knowledge of your personal life but I'm about to take a conference call with the Defense Department about some contracts we're in the middle of – you know, maybe you heard about this fiasco on the Potomac last year? We lost, I don't know, a couple trillion dollars worth of weapons and equipment, had a top government agency destroyed, not to mention the loss of human life and the resulting environmental pollution... anyway, I've been involved in the the recovery effort so uh – I'm a little busy right now and I'm gonna have to make this fast... you still with me, Rogers?”

Steve was fuming. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“Okay, if it's _Bucky_ that you're worried about,” Tony said, putting emphasis on his friend's name in a way that made Steve cringe, “I just want to assure you that he will be absolutely _fine_.”

To Steve it sounded like a threat. “What is that supposed to mean? What are you talking about?”

“People do it all the time. Just fill his water bowl, put extra kibble in his dish, and cover all the carpeting with those absorbent puppy pad things. If you want, give a key to one of your neighbors and they can take him for a walk in the evenings.” 

 

 

In the end, Steve had decided to go to New York. He would look like he was hiding otherwise, and after the SHEILD disaster he needed to take responsibility for any of the resulting fall-out. His country and the safety of it's citizens would always be his duty and concern.

Steve hadn't even left DC and he was already worried about Bucky. Sure, he often left Bucky alone for hours during the day but there had always been the feeling that he could be home in a moment's notice if Bucky needed him. Steve had left Bucky with Sam's number and assured him that Sam would be available should anything happen, but he knew Bucky wouldn't call that number even if he was laying on the floor, bleeding to death.

Also Bucky wasn't great about answering the house phone. So, before he left he went down and bought Bucky his own cell phone so they could do the texting thing. Bucky was to text him when he woke up, made food, bathed, went to sleep, or planned to leave the apartment. Steve almost had a panic attack every time he even thought of Bucky going out by himself, but he wasn't about to forbid a grown man from leaving the apartment – that didn't mean Steve couldn't strongly discourage him every time he wanted to. 

At the flight gate where Steve was waiting, fidgeting and shaking his leg nervously, he saw the pilots arrive and walk down the runway. Soon it would be too late. He got his phone out.

From: Steve 10:13am  
 _You sure you're ok with me me leaving? Last chance I can come back now._

Steve waited what seemed like an eternity – but was really only two minutes, before calling him.

“Steve?”

“Hey, did you get my text?”

“No, I was in the bath tub.”

“So, take the phone with – wait, still? You're still in the bath? You were getting in the bath when I left. That was over two hours ago.”

“I like it in there.”

“I've heard. You get up to all sorts of things in the tub... but what - are you just going to spend the next four days in there?”

“No.”

“Okay, it's time to get out. If your fingers and toes are wrinkly it means you're clean. You don't wanna fall asleep and drown in there.”

Bucky sighed heavily, “Okay.”

“And keep your phone with you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

With first class seats, he was part of the first boarding group. It was embarrassing. He didn't like champagne and he could deal with being cramped for a couple of hours. When he noticed a young soldier in uniform behind him in line, he offered up his seat. At first the soldier refused, but Steve insisted. Back in coach, Steve felt much more comfortable, even with the baby screaming behind him. When the stewardess came around to tell everyone to turn off their phones, Steve checked his messages one last time.

From: Bucky 10:56 am  
 _OK out. Used hair stuff and dry tub out with blue towel. Eat Ramen. TV_

Steve didn't have to wonder if the noodles were cooked. He just wondered how many dry noodle crumbs there would be around the couch area by the time he got home. For some reason this thought was touching, and made him feel a little sad rather than irritated. There was nowhere else he'd rather be than at home, reminding Bucky to hold his mouth over a plate.

 

 

As soon as they touched down at JFK, Steve turned his phone back on. He was happy to see another message.

From: Bucky 11:32 am  
 _Going to movie box on corner_

A wave of panic washed over him. He called, and Bucky picked up after three rings.

“Hello?”

“What did I say about going out?” Steve couldn't get the words out of his mouth fast enough.

“To tell you,” Bucky said, “I did.”

“You need to ask. Wait til you hear back from me next time,” Steve whispered.

Bucky took a second to respond. “Why?”

“Why?” Steve repeated, then realized that he didn't really have an answer that wouldn't sound condescending. “Because,” he said, “I worry about you is all. This is your first time alone for so long. And anyway, there's dozens of movies in the cabinet. I left you the credit card for emergencies.”

“You think I'm going to hurt someone.”

“No,” Steve said, “I said I'm worried about _you_. I'll feel a lot better if I know what you're doing. So please, just keep me in the loop.”

“Fine. Next time I'll wait for your approval, _Captain._ ”

Steve was caught completely off guard by Bucky's sarcasm. It was something he would have expected from him seventy years ago, but now... 

People were starting to exit the plane and Steve had to get up and pull his bag out of the overhead compartment or else he would hold up the people behind him. “Look, Bucky, I'll call you in a little bit and we'll talk more about this, okay?”

There was no response. 

He repeated Bucky's name a few more times before pulling the phone away from his ear and looking at the screen to see that the call was ended. He had been hung up on.

Steve had forgotten what he was about to do, and sat there staring at the phone in disbelief until the lady next to him chuckled and said, “Sounds like you left you left a little one at home. I remember those days.”

Steve forced a chuckle and said, “Uh, yeah. You know how it is.” He gave her a terse smile as she politely pointed to the overhead compartment and Steve practically jumped out of his seat to pull his luggage and hers out as well.

 

A man with a huge sign that had the word ROGERS scrawled on it was waiting for him when he passed security. He didn't know why he was expecting Tony, but his disappointment quickly turned to relief when he realized that this would give him another chance to call Bucky before he arrived at Stark Tower. He couldn't believe he had been hung up on. He felt agitated, his emotions swinging between anger and worry. What would Bucky do if he was in a rebellious, resentful mood? And why was he in such a mood anyway? Steve was only concerned for his well-being, so what was the whole _Captain_ thing about? The word and the tone of Bucky's voice when he said it was playing over and over in his head like a broken record. Sam had said that Bucky looked to Steve to be the boss but that clearly wasn't the case anymore, if it ever was. Not that Steve wanted to be the boss...

Steve was so distracted that he didn't even hear the chauffeur asking him if he needed to visit the carousel for checked luggage until the third time he repeated the question.

“Oh, no, no. This is everything,” Steve said, pointing at the duffle bag on his shoulder.

As he followed the chauffeur to where the car was parked, he began planning what he would say to Bucky. He didn't want to be too overbearing nor did he want to be whining. But he had to tell him how unacceptable and hurtful it is to be hung up on. Would Bucky like Steve to do that to him? No, of course not. Maybe Steve should do it just so Bucky can see how it feels. Wait, that was childish. Steve chided himself for even having the idea.

The chauffeur opened the car door and gestured for to Steve to hand him his bag. “No,” Steve said, “thanks, but I've got it, I'll keep it with me.” The chauffeur smiled and walked around the car to get behind the wheel. Steve checked his phone to see if there were any messages, hoping Bucky had already thought to apologize. Nothing. Steve was getting ready to call when he realized how quiet it was in the car. The chauffeur would hear everything, and after the embarrassing moment with the lady beside him on the plane, he decided not to make another show of his problems with Bucky. Now more than ever, he appreciated the privacy of the text message. He typed the words _Why did you hang up on me?_ and then heard Bucky's sarcastic _Captain_ echoing in his head again. He had to be more friendly, casual.

From: Steve 1:16 pm  
 _Hey Buck, why'd you hang up on me?_

Steve sat in the back seat holding the phone in his hand, watching the screen and waiting for it to light up and vibrate in his hand.

From: Bucky 1:19pm  
 _done talk_

Steve was disappointed, and confused. Why couldn't Bucky use complete sentences when Steve made the effort to do so? He was fluent in five languages (okay, maybe just combat terminology, Steve reminded himself) but he couldn't even use half-way decent grammar in his own native tongue? It's not like he had something better to do. Was Steve that unimportant? Or was Bucky upset? He couldn't tell without being able to hear his voice. Angry or not, though, rudeness was not a habit Bucky should pick up.

From: Steve 1:21pm  
 _Typically the conversation ends when both people say GOODBYE._

From: Bucky 1:22 pm  
 _GOODBYE_

More sarcasm.

From: Steve 1:25 pm  
 _I wasn't done. Can you imagine how silly I felt when I realized I was talking to myself?_

From: Bucky 1:31 pm  
 _sorry. What else._

Steve realized he really hadn't had anything more to say. After he was hung up on, Steve had simply told him that he would have to call him back. 

From: Steve 1:37 pm  
 _I wanted to tell you that I will call you when I get to my room._

From: Bucky 1:39 pm  
 _why_

Why? _Why?_ Steve felt his temperature rising. Didn't Bucky _want_ to talk to Steve? Wasn't he happy to know that someone was thinking about him? Apparently not. 

That didn't make sense, though. Not after the day at the museum. Maybe Bucky was still having problems expressing himself and Steve was taking it the wrong way. Steve couldn't just say that he wanted to talk to him, that might add to the confusion Bucky was having about their friendship.

From: Steve 1:48 pm  
 _I have some important things to tell you. Keep your phone on you, okay?_

Steve waited. They were stuck in traffic. Steve leaned forward and asked, “How long do you think, until we get there?”

The driver exhaled deeply, “Well, with traffic like this, it's maybe another forty minutes til we hit the Queensboro bridge, and then another twenty minutes to the Tower, give or take.”

“Thanks.” That gave Steve an hour to come up with some important things he could tell Bucky. He wasn't getting any confirmation from him about the last text, though.

From: Steve 1:53 pm  
 _Okay?_

From: Steve 1:56 pm  
 _HELLO?_

From: Bucky 1:58 pm  
 _YES_

Steve tucked his phone inside a pocket of his duffle bag so he would stop thinking about it. 

He had only been away from the apartment for six hours.

 

The city had mostly recovered since the last time he was here, almost three years ago, and Steve was impressed by the spirit of these people who had just picked themselves up and dusted themselves off after such a horrifying ordeal. It lightened his mood as he carried his bag through the revolving doors of Stark Tower.

An email from Jarvis had told him that he had his own permanent, private quarters on the eighty-ninth floor, along with the other Avengers, and that he would know his room by the shield plaque on the door. While it seemed corny to the point of humiliating, (what? Did they give Banner a giant green fist and Romanov a garrote wire?) especially when every member of the team was literate and knew how to spell their own name, he decided it was best just to appreciate the gesture and deal with it. Hell, if his apartment were headquarters everyone would be sleeping on the floor.

He wasn't alone in the elevator. The lower floors of Stark Tower were all offices and there were three others with him. They punched the button for their floor, and Steve noticed that there was no eighty-nine on the board. This was a riddle he wasn't in the mood to solve. The last passenger got off on the seventieth floor, and when the door closed behind her, a voice sounded in the room.

“Good afternoon, Captain Rogers.” 

Steve jumped, then recognized the voice he had heard on the phone. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve knit his brows, “Where are you?”

“I am here, in the elevator, with you, as well as many other points in the Avengers Tower.”

“Huh,” Steve mused, realizing that he had taken it for granted that this Jarvis would have a body. “You mean Stark Tower right?” he asked.

“No, Sir, this building has been re-christened the Avengers Tower in honor of the team.”

“Okay, well that's really swell, but uh, I don't how I'm supposed to get to my quarters if the elevator only goes up to the eighty-fifth floor. Unless Stark means for us to use the staircase in order to stay in shape.”

“No, sir. The upper floors are private and can only be reached when I recognize those who are authorized to access them. I will be taking you to the eighty-ninth floor momentarily, after we make a few quick stops.”

The elevator glided smoothly up another twelve floors, and when the doors opened on the eighty-second floor, he saw a familiar and very unexpected face.

“Natasha!”

She smiled warmly and stepped in beside him. “Hey, Rogers, fancy seeing you here.”

“I thought you were -”

“- trying to find myself? Yeah, well, Stark found me first.”

“Is there anyone here that wasn't cajoled or blackmailed into coming?” Steve said as the elevator began sliding upwards again.

Then the doors drew open again and there was Banner, mimicking surprise. “A reunion party in the elevator?” Bruce said as he stepped aboard. “We can do better than that, right guys?”

“ _Him,_ ” Natasha said, nodding in Banner's direction.

“Rogers!” 

Steve offered his hand, but Bruce ignored it and wrapped him in his arms, clapping him on the back. “Long time, no see.”

“Yep,” Steve agreed, as the elevator once again lifted. He was half-expecting the doors to stop one more time before the eighty-ninth floor and reveal Thor standing on the other side of them, but no, he thought, gods of thunder probably don't travel by elevator.

 

The Avengers' rooming floor was snazzy by any account. A full bar, huge television, leather furniture and a panoramic view of midtown were impressive, but Steve still felt uncomfortable. Natasha and Bruce were opening a bottle of vodka she swore must have cost Tony a fortune and asking Steve to join them. 

“No, I'm all right,” Steve said, “I need to... settle in. Unpack my stuff and just relax for a while. Anyway, that stuff doesn't really work on me.”

“Maybe you need to adjust your intake levels,” Bruce suggested. “Don't worry, we're not stingy.”

Steve laughed and waved them off. He found his room easily and rolled his eyes as he pushed open the door with the ridiculous shield plaque on it. The room was decorated entirely with WWII and 1940's memorabilia, complete with faded photographs, an old phonograph and other miscellaneous antiques. Steve didn't know whether to be mystified or insulted. Did Tony think this is what Steve's apartment looked like?

He threw his bag onto the bed and flopped down beside it, then pulled his phone out of the pocket of his duffle bag. It vibrated at his touch, telling him that he had messages waiting.

From: Bucky 2:33 pm  
 _eat chees ball tuna can_

From: Bucky 3:49 pm  
 _ramen_

Steve dialed Bucky's number and heard his voice after two rings.

“Steve?”

“Hey,” Steve answered, “How ya doin'?”

“Good. Watching videos.”

“Oh? Whatcha watchin'?” Steve asked.

“People making armpit farts.”

Steve laughed. “Sounds enlightening.”

“I can't do them. The arm...” Bucky said mournfully.

Steve laughed again. “Don't sweat it, Buck. There's nothing tragic about not being able to do armpit farts.”

Bucky said nothing, just sighed deeply into the phone.

“You okay, Bucky? You sound, I don't know, sad.”

“Yeah, it's just, you're usually home by now, and I'm gonna be here alone, all night.”

Steve smiled, glad he was being missed. “I know, Bucky, I'm sorry.” He wanted to tell Bucky that he missed him too but thought better of it. “Why don't you watch some cat videos and make yourself dinner. Something healthy, you've had enough junk food and dry ramen noodles today.”

“I was gonna take a nap.”

“That sounds – oh, hey that reminds me – I wanted to tell you that you can use my bed while I'm gone. That's what I wanted to tell you before,” Steve lied.

“I'm already in your bed. That's where I am right now.”

“Oh. Okay.” Steve shrugged. “I also wanted to tell you that there's some cash hidden in that MacArthur biography I have on the bookshelf, in case you need it.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Nope,” Steve answered, wishing there was another reason to stay on the phone. “No that's it.”

“Well, I'm gonna go now,” Bucky said, then mumbled, “Sorry about hanging up on you before.”

“It's all right, Buck.” Steve frowned. “I was overreacting. I'm sorry, too.”

“Goodbye.”

“Yep, 'bye Bucky.” Steve ended the call and imagined Bucky snuggling into his bed. 

 

 

Steve had only begun to unpack his bag when he heard a gentle knock on his door. He opened it, and there was Natasha, with two glasses in her hand, raising herself onto her toes and trying to peak behind his shoulder. 

“So what's _your_ room look like?” Steve moved to welcome her inside. She handed him a glass of vodka on ice. “I'm not going to let you leave that whole bottle to me and Bruce. Cheers.”

Steve clinked her and took a sip as she looked around. “Not bad,” he said, feeling a momentary warmth in his chest that was the closest he ever got to a buzz. It would fade soon. “The room though, I can't say the same for. It's like a museum in here.” 

“No, I like it. It's cozy. If you think this is bad you should see mine.” Natasha was tracing her finger along the edge of the phonograph's bell. “All dark-stained furniture and huge red and black floor lamps. There's an Orthodox Russian Virgin Mary painting on the wall and my bedspread is a bear pelt. Complete with the head.” Natasha raised an eyebrow as she sipped her drink. “Banner has a framed periodic table of elements above his bed and a lava lamp. I'm guessing Barton's room is done in some sort of Robin Hood theme and I can't wait to see what Thor's looks like. The bed's probably shaped like a Viking ship.”

Steve was laughing, “So does this mean we get to decorate Tony's room?”

“Unfortunately I think he's too smart to let us do that. But if we were, I would vote for _My Little Pony_.”

“I have no idea what that is but it sounds hilarious.”

“It is. Rainbow-colored ponies with pictures of ice-cream cones and magic wands on their asses. All they do is play soccer and teach other lessons about love and friendship. It almost makes me glad I missed out on my childhood.”

“It can't be worse than those comics they made about me,” Steve said shaking his head.

“What do you mean? They had you killing nazis and blowing stuff up. What's not awesome about that?”

“They also gave me a fifteen-year-old sidekick and I was constantly lecturing him about loyalty and honor.”

“Steve Rogers lecturing on loyalty and honor?” Natasha asked sardonically. “No way. _Not in a million years_.” She laughed into her glass before taking another sip.

“Shut up.” Steve had set himself up for that one. He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest, fake-pouting.

Natasha took a seat next to him on the bed. “It's good to see you smile, Rogers,” Natasha said, peering into his face. “You look good in general. You look – I don't know - _softer_.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at her.

“I don't mean soft like you're out of shape,” she said, “I just mean that there used to be a hardness in your face that I don't see anymore. Domestic bliss must suit you.”

Steve cocked his head quizzically and asked, “What do you mean _domestic bliss_? Like you think I have a girlfriend?”

“Come on, Steve,” Natasha said, shaking her head and smiling wide. “All those girls I threw at you, including myself, and I could never get a single bite out of you. Then, that day in the van when we were being driven to the site of our executions, and even after Hill saved our asses, I knew by the look on your face that only one thing was on your mind - _him_."

“Whoa, whoa, whoa -” Steve put his arms out in front of him, exactly as he had the day Bucky kept insisting that he wanted them to make out.

“- and then it all made sense,” Natasha went on, ignoring Steve's pleas.

“What are you trying to say? That I'm -” Steve asked, then looked around himself nervously and lowered his voice to a whisper, “that I'm _gay_?”

“I'm not telling you that you're gay, you're the only one that can decide that.” Natasha shrugged. “I'm just saying that you're in love with him. Probably always have been.”

Steve put on his most serious Captain America face and pointed his finger at Natasha's smirking face. “Bucky is my _friend_. I love him like a brother and that's _it_.”

Natasha snickered at the display and said, “So are you going to tell me that the reason you rushed in here as soon as you arrived _wasn't_ because you already miss him so much that you just had to call him and hear his voice? _In private?_ ”

Steve turned beet-red and said, “I was checking in.” Natasha was laughing out loud while Steve continued defending himself. “It's his first night alone and I had some important things to tell him about the apartment.” Steve chose not to tell her that Bucky was sleeping in his bed.

“Take it easy, Rogers,” she said, finishing her drink in one swallow, “It's okay, your secret's safe with me. Maybe I'm just jealous.”

“What _secret_? I don't have a secret. You're making this all – wait, what do you mean, _jealous_? Jealous of who?”

“Jealous of you,” she said, smiling wryly. She leaned forward to set her glass on Steve's bedside table. “I knew him. He taught me almost everything I know.”

Steve's jaw went completely slack.

“He was my first love. I was completely smitten.” Natasha placed her palms on the bed behind her and leaned back, staring wistfully up at the ceiling. “He gave me hand-to-hand training, and I remember when he would teach me these choke-holds, how I would be pressed back against his chest with his arm around my neck. Just feeling his body and having his smell all around me, I could barely focus on what he was telling me...”

Steve was too speechless even to stop her from going on.

“... at night I would be in my little cot and I could barely sleep because I couldn't stop thinking about him. Those icy blue eyes and that incredible jaw. And those lips... I would stay up all night touching myself and thinking about those lips.”

“I thought you said he shot you?” Not even Steve knew where that question came from.

“He did,” Natasha said, sitting up and looking Steve in the eye. “But that story I told you was a lie. When I defected, Barton and I were trying to get out of the country and he tracked us. The bullet he shot in my gut was meant specifically for me. It's a heart-breaking ending to an already bitter romance, isn't it?”

“Romance?” Steve furrowed his brow, “Did you guys – I mean, did you and him ever -”

“One time,” Natasha smiled, “Only once.”

“What?” Steve went bug-eyed. “You're joking!”

“Nope. I'll never forget it. It was amazing and he was my first, too -”

“- Oh God, I don't want to hear anymore.” Steve dropped his head in his hands.

“Hey you're the one that asked!” Natasha lightly struck Steve's arm.

“I know and I wish I hadn't.”

“Well, I'm sorry if I offended your virgin ears.”

“Oh my ears aren't virgin, trust me,” Steve said. “I grew up with Bucky.”

“What, was he a bad boy?”

“The worst,” Steve confirmed. “And he was disgusting, too.”

“Disgusting how?”

“Well, he liked to put worms up his nose and drink toilet water, for starters.” While Natasha was laughing, Steve added. “Sometimes he still drinks out of the toilet.”

“Steve!” Natasha exclaimed, her features pinched in disgust. “You have to stop him, he'll get worms.”

“That's what I told him. Who knows how often he does that. Think about _that_ when you're remembering your one night of passion with him.”

Just then the booming voice of Thor could be heard out in the living room, Tony's alongside it. 

“We should probably join the party,” Natasha said, clapping Steve's knee. “There'll be more time for girl talk later.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, but if there isn't,” Natasha said, standing up, “I just want you to know that I'm happy he's with you. And... don't tell him about me, okay?” 

"Sure,” Steve said, blinking, “not if you don't want me to.” 

“It's better that way,” she nodded, and then walked to the door, “Come on, Barton's probably here, sitting by himself in a dark corner. Let's get him to show us his room.” 

Steve got up and began following Natasha out of the room, then quickly doubled back to grab his phone off the bed. In response to the look Natasha gave him for doing this, he warned, “Not a _word_.” 


	5. Steve's Surprises

Steve spent most of the first night sitting with Clint while they watched everyone else get drunk. Conversation topics stayed mercifully light - Tony didn't bring up anything about Sheild and Thor was gracious enough not to mention that he had recently been charged with saving the world _again_ , this time depending on the help of his previously evil brother (who had supposedly been killed for his efforts) instead of the Avengers. Nobody offered their condolences, Steve assumed, because no one besides Thor actually believed Loki was dead.

Steve couldn't get involved in the chatter because he was thinking about Bucky. It was past eight and he still hadn't texted to say that he was up from his nap. He was either still sleeping or neglecting to text as he promised. As Steve thought he had promised. Did he? Steve couldn't be sure, and he wasn't about to keep checking his phone in front of Natasha and everybody else. Everyone seemed geared towards teasing the hell out of each other and so far Steve had avoided being a target. That would change if he brought his phone out of his pocket. He excused himself to the nearby restroom.

There were no messages or missed calls, which was what he expected since he hadn't felt the thing vibrate in his pocket. He lowered the lid of the toilet and sat down on it as he dialed Bucky.

After four rings, the phone picked up, but there was only the sound of sniffles and groaning.

“Bucky?”

“Steve?” a voice croaked back.

“What are you doing?” 

“Sleeping,” Bucky slurred, then let out a groan. “... or was. Now I'm talking to you.”

“Are you just going to sleep all night?” Steve realized how stupid that question was, then added, “That's almost fourteen hours of sleep. That's not healthy.”

“Well, it's comfortable in here. And I'm going with Sam really early in the morning, so ...”

“Wait, going with Sam? Going where?”

“Running, like _we_ do.”

“When were you gonna tell me this?”

Bucky's voice was suddenly clear and very forceful. “I thought you _wanted_ me to talk to him. He called and on the landline and asked me. I said yes.”

Since when did Bucky answer the house phone? And why would Sam, who hadn't seen Bucky since he tried to kill him, want to meet up with him and not think to ask Steve if it was even a good idea?

“What did I tell you about about wanting to stay in the loop? Especially when it comes to you going out!”

“I won't be _alone,_ ” Bucky mumbled. “I thought it would make you happy.”

Steve shut his eyes and tried to cool down. He was overreacting. “No, it _does_ make me happy, Buck. Is he coming to the apartment? When?”

“Umm, five.”

“Five? Well, you should probably set your alarm so he's not -”

“- _Steve!_ ”

“Yeah, you're right. You've probably got that under control.” Steve slouched forward, suddenly feeling very small and silly. “Just give me a call when you get back from your run.”

“We're going to have breakfast somewhere afterwards.”

“Oh, really,” Steve's voice cracked. “okay.” Steve badly wanted to to go off on table manners and how he should offer to pay the bill. He had to physically restrain himself by tightly pressing his lips together.

After an uncomfortable silence, Bucky said, “Okay I'm going back to sleep now.”

“All right. Have fun tomorrow.” Steve's attempted cheer was almost pathetic.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

“'Bye, Bucky.” 

This bothered Steve. And it bothered him that he was bothered by it. Why was he so bothered? He didn't know.

Steve stared at the designs on bathroom floor tile for a few minutes until a fierce pounding on the door had him scream and jump about a foot in the air. Several giggling voices could be made out on the other side of the door.

“Hey, Cap,” the muffled voice of Stark said, “uh, this is a community restroom, and when there are several persons imbibing, the five minute limit is sort of tacitly understood.” Steve watched the handle jiggle against the lock. “In other words, get the fuck out of the bathroom, Rogers. That's the whole point of suites. Use your own bathroom for... whatever it is you're doing in there.”

Steve flushed the toilet and washed his hands, knowing full well that this was a terrible waste of water. After exiting the bathroom and announcing to the drunken crowd that he was going to bed, he was booed all the way down the hall to his room.

 

Steve was sure to be up at five, just in case anything happened and he had to take a call from either Sam or Bucky. He decided it wouldn't be bad idea to take a run himself, and starting from Columbus Circle, ran the entire perimeter of Central Park once, and then twice for good measure. He was back on the elevator by half-past seven.

He kept trying to imagine what was going on in DC. Were they still running, or were they at breakfast? Did Bucky get up on time? Or did Sam use the spare key to get in and set something off in Bucky's mind which resulted in some sort of attack? Were both of his friends laying dead on the floor of his apartment? He decided to send a text.

From: Steve 7:34 am  
 _Good run?_

Steve had barely tucked the phone into his pocket when it began to ring. His heart leapt.

“Hello?” Steve answered, unable to hide the smile in his voice.

“Hey,” Bucky replied coolly. Steve could hear the sounds of a busy restaurant in the background, and over it, Sam. “We're eating breakfast. I'll call you when I get home.”

“Okay,” Steve said. It was obvious that everything seemed to be going well.

“Sam says hello.” Bucky said.

“Yeah tell him...” Steve was going to say _tell him thanks for taking you out_ but reminded himself that Bucky was not a dog. “Tell him I said hello, too.”

Bucky immediately relayed the message in a perfect monotone. “Okay I'm going to eat now. Goodbye.”

“'Kay, bye.” Steve hung up, and though it was less than a minute, the fact that Bucky had _called_ him instead of just texting made him feel deeply happy. He was basking in the glow for only a few seconds before a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Good Morning, Captain Rogers.” Steve didn't jump this time, but it was still a little unnerving. “I meant to speak to you when you boarded the elevator but you were engaged...”

“Yes, I was taking a phone call.” Was this thing listening and watching him all the time?

“I am to inform you, Sir, that due to the extended celebratory activities of the previous night, the lab presentation Mr. Stark had scheduled -”

“- Are you always here in the elevator, Jarvis?” Steve interrupted.

“Well, of course, Sir.”

“And the eighty-ninth floor, you're there, too?”

“Certainly, Sir. I am always available should I be needed by any Avenger at any moment.” Jarvis proudly answered.

“My room? You're in my room, too?”

“Yes, if you need my assistance never hesitate to call out for me. I am always there.”

“Huh.”

“As I was saying, the scheduled presentation has been postponed from one to four pm. I hope this doesn't effect any plans you may have had.”

“No, that's fine,” Steve answered absently, his mind still on the topic of Jarvis' eerily pervasive presence. On the eighty-ninth floor, the littered bar area (that he hadn't seen in the dark on his way out) was evidence enough of why no one was going to be ready for a one o'clock presentation. In his room, he was pleased to find his mini-fridge stocked with orange juice to guzzle as he walked into his bathroom. He was in his briefs when he remembered what he learned on the elevator.

“Jarvis?” he called out.

“Yes, Sir?”

Steve picked up a folded towel and modestly wrapped himself in it. “Are you... watching me?”

“Of course. But don't be alarmed, I am not interested in your anatomy.”

“Why in _here_?”

“Well, I suppose it's in case a malevolent being suddenly materializes here in the bathroom and attempts an attack upon your person. We would want accurate data to assess the enemy with.”

“So you're recording me, too.”

“Absolutely.”

Steve sighed. “That's very comforting.”

“Good. I'm glad you feel safe.”

Steve had taken longer showers in the army – that was how comfortable he felt under Jarvis' watchful eye. When he was done, he checked his phone and then settled in for a few hours of reading. He had always wanted to read _Moby Dick_ , but it wasn't exactly the sort of book that was going to keep his mind off of what Bucky could possibly be doing. He decided to take a day trip to Brooklyn.

It was easy enough (but slow as hell) to take the A train to High Street. He had expected downtown to be as changed as Manhattan, but there was still something familiar in the air that made him smile. He headed toward the bridge, and even though the housing had all been rebuilt or re-appropriated, the Brooklyn Bridge still seemed as unflappable and intimidating as it had been to him as a boy. Remembering his phone, he took about a dozen pictures of it, and then checked the time. It was ten-thirty. Could they really still be at breakfast?

Steve decided to go and look for his old place. He found the spot but since the building had been torn down, he took a picture of the alley that had been outside his window, which was more or less as disgusting as it had always been. The Barnes' apartment was gone, too. There wasn't even an alley to call familiar. Feeling disenfranchised, he walked down to Red Hook.

It was as though his old dirty neighborhood had been scrubbed clean and stuffed full while the busy docks had all been abandoned and left to rot. At least he could find the warehouse where Bucky had gotten his very first day job. It was empty, but the faded letters of the seafood company that was once based there could still be read. He snapped a picture, and in the breeze he could catch the must of the forgotten structure. 

A few yards away, just beyond the murky shore, Steve spotted the tops of two rows of posts from the sunken dock. Like magic, he could see Bucky sauntering along towards him, his head hanging heavy and a crate of fish on his shoulder, greasy hair falling into his eyes. He was often kept past quitting time, unloading a boat that had docked late, while Steve waited for him and threw smart remarks at him every time he passed. 

Steve looked behind him and saw the exact lip of concrete that he would lean against. Laughing he sat back against it and took a picture of the ghostly remains of the dock, then remembered that you could send those things in a text. Feverishly he pulled Bucky up on his phone, attached the photo, and typed a message.

From: Steve 11:51 am  
 _Remember this!_

He had already hit send by the time he realized his mistake. Bucky would have no idea what he was looking at, where it was, or what it meant. 

“Hey!” An old round man at the corner yelled, “The fuck you think you're doin'?”

Steve was blown away, tongue-tied. He gestured lamely at the dock. “Well, I'm just -”

“- This is private property motherfucker, beat it!” Steve stood up and began walking, glancing behind him at the man who was still shouting obscenities. He turned a corner just to get out of his line of sight.

The episode didn't become funny to him until he was half-way to the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station, which he came across on a different route back when he was trying and failing to find the apartment he and Bucky had shared. He decided to return early, which was good because he got on the wrong train and didn't realize what he'd done until Broadway, then got off and walked to the J line. It was fun to go over the East River and he took plenty of pictures for Bucky, but he'd screwed up again and was still on the train at Broad St - the end of the line. He had to go one stop back and finally found the A train, triple checking that he was on the right platform. Along with the other commuters, he was staring impatiently and pointlessly down the dark subway tunnel when the phone in his pocket went off.

“Bucky!” Steve's voice echoed against the tile walls and some people looked up from their newspapers.

“Okay, I'm home now. I got your message. I don't know what that is...”

“Yeah I'm sorry, I just got a little excited 'cause I found that place where you worked when you were a kid and we just moved out it even still has the name _Ehrenbach's_ on the side of the building and I found the exact dock you must have walked a million times but it's sunk now and you can barely see it but I could just _see_ you _right there_ like I had a dozens of times before...” Steve didn't stop to take a breath during his tale, not even when the train screeched into the station and drowned out his words. He was still going when the doors opened. “... and the guy was still yelling at me – hey, Buck, hold on, I'm getting on the train...”

“Steve? Steve...” Bucky repeated his name several times while Steve squeezed himself into the car. 

“... and that's another thing,” Steve kept right on as soon as he could put the phone back to his ear, “I got completely lost and spent the last two hours trying to find the right train which would have never happened to me when we were kids -”

“-Steve!”

“- and it wasn't even like – what, what's up?”

“I'm gonna go because I want to take a bath and have a nap before Sam comes back. I just called to tell you that I''m home.”

“Oh – when Sam comes back? For what?”

“We're going to the movies tonight.”

“The movies?” Steve had wanted to be the first person to take Bucky to the movies. He had even planned to bribe Bucky into it when he got home, since he never wanted to go if Steve just offered it. Suddenly it felt very cramped on the train. The excitement about the bridge, the sunken dock, the cursing old man, the East River, all of it, just dropped away from him. “We- wha- I mean is there something out you really want to see? 'Cause if there is, when I get back -” 

“-No, I don't know. Just some movie. Sam said the name but I can't remember.” Bucky yawned.

_Just some movie._ All the time Steve had spent rambling off plot summaries and good reviews to get Bucky interested in something, or searching around DC looking for places that play classic matinees, and all Sam had to do is ask and Bucky was more than willing to go see _just some movie_. Steve was no longer confused about what he was feeling. It was jealousy, pure and simple.

“Okay,” Steve cleared his throat because it felt like he was choking on his own heart. “Well, I won't keep you. Call me when you get back.” He wanted to drill Bucky about what he'd been doing until two-thirty but he felt like he couldn't speak.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

“'Bye.”

Steve stared out of the window at the walls of the subway tunnel for only a minute before his phone rang again. It was Sam. He glared at the number until just before it was about to go to voicemail, then answered.

“Hello?” 

“Hey! How's the big apple!” Sam's cheerful greeting clashed with Steve's stern one.

“It's uh... it's fine. Been sort of busy with the Avengers...”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Sam said, “but I was hoping you'd get a chance to go over to Brooklyn and see your old stomping grounds. Bring us back some pictures.”

“Sure, maybe.”

“I'm walking home from your place right now. Gotta tell you, I need to find some non-super soldier running partners before my self-esteem starts dropping!”

Steve said nothing.

Hello?” Sam asked.

“I'm here.” Steve was biting his lip to keep from asking, but then it came out anyway. “Hey, it's almost two-thirty, you guys weren't at breakfast that long, were you?”

“Nah, we went shopping and did some other stuff.”

“Shopping?”

“Grocery shopping. He said he didn't want to go by himself.”

Steve wondered if they held hands. “What else?”

“Oh, just other things,” Sam laughed. “Your boy gotta surprise for _you_.”

“Surprise? What sort of a surprise?” Steve asked uneasily.

“Not saying anything,” Sam answered, and Steve could almost see the mischievous look on his face. “Promised not to. But I think you'll be happy.”

Steve didn't feel happy. He was tired of everyone thinking he loved surprises so much. “So you're going to the movies tonight?”

“Yeah, is that cool?”

Steve was glad he was being asked, though he wondered if that would have happened if he hadn't mentioned it himself. “Sure, what are you guys seeing?”

“ _Transformers_... something – five, six, twelve, I can't keep up anymore. Something fun.”

Steve frowned. “Do you think that's really a good idea for him? Explosions and all that?”

“Yeah, dude, it's PG-13. He'll be fine.”

Steve's train had been in a station, and as the doors closed he looked up and saw _Colombus Circle_ on one of the platform's pillars. “Oh, _damn_ it!”

“What, what happened?”

“Nothing. I just missed my stop.”

“Oh, is that my bad?”

“No, I should probably get off the phone, though.”

“Okay, well, I'll see you later. And take some pictures!”

“Yeah, I'll try.”

Steve got off at 72nd and walked back to the tower. It was three-thirty when he arrived on the eighty-ninth floor. Everyone was up, dressed, and gathered at the bar. Drinking. Again.

“Rogers!” Tony raised his glass in the air from his host's position behind the bar. “Just made it back in time! Well, actually I don't see us getting down to the lab for at least another hour, but we missed you.”

Tony set a glass of whiskey in front of an empty chair next to Natasha, and Steve felt a warm caress across his shoulders as he took his place. 

“So how's the Borough of the Kings?” Tony asked. Steve wondered why it was so obvious where he had been.

“Good,” Steve was nodding, trying to convince himself, “weird, not much of what I remember is left, besides a place where -” Steve decided not to mention Bucky's name, “where an old friend used to work. By the old docks.”

Things were quiet for a moment. It was clear that everyone knew who that friend was. Steve decided to change the subject. “I had a hell of a time with the trains, though. Coming back.”

Everyone groaned or chuckled in agreement.

“Don't feel bad, bro. There's a reason I have the driver take me everywhere – I mean, outside of snobbery. If I tried to take the train to Harlem, I'd end up in Jamaica.” Tony burped and held his glass out, “Cheers to you, for being better than the rest of us. I mean it.” He winked.

Steve guessed he should take that as a compliment, but then again, Stark was drunk.

“Anyway we were having a very important discussion and we need your input. Apparently,” Tony said, spreading his arms, “Avengers Headquarters is - what were the words you used, Natasha? - too much like a themed bed and breakfast for honeymooners. Never mind the effort I put into creating spaces for everyone that would reflect their talents and personalities. So I guess I'm redecorating, but I wanted to know if you, Rogers, were as ungrateful as the rest of your comrades.”

“No, I'm okay with it -”

“- See,” Tony pointed at Steve and faced the rest of the group, “at least there's one good man among you.” Tony turned to Steve, “I'm glad you like your room. Pepper can take the blame for everything else but I did your room personally. Most of that stuff in there is my dad's.”

Steve couldn't believe it. He had always assumed he was Tony's least favorite Avenger but the man had decorated Steve's room with his own family heirlooms. Steve was touched. “Really?”

“Of course. What, did you think I got all that stuff off of eBay?”

“Are you going to tell me that the medieval tapestry in my room is a keepsake, too?” Barton asked.

“No. Pepper got that at an art auction a while back but it went with the archery theme. If you don't like it, just know that it was either the tapestry or a signed _Prince of Thieves_ movie poster, but I told Pepper that no one should be made to spend their nights alone in dark room with Kevin Costner.”

Natasha nudged Steve, “Talk about intuition, huh?”

 

They didn't get down to the lab until after five. The place was a mess of high tech gadgets and standing in the middle of it all was a seven-foot humanoid shape with a sheet draped over it. Steve didn't see the point. They all knew what Tony's suit looked like. 

Tony stood next to the figure and cleared his throat. “Everyone. It has been over two years since we gathered together to defeat an evil alien horde. Since that time, a lot has happened. Thor, thank you for saving the universe and I'm sorry I slept in that day. Natasha, Steve, though I personally would have tried a less explodey course of action, thank you both for dealing with the whole Hydra thing. Clint, on behalf of these two I apologize that the organization you worked for was destroyed while you were on assignment in Tangiers...”

Steve felt a buzz in his pocket and his phone started ringing. Everyone watched as he pulled it out and looked at the number. Bucky.

“You need to take that?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, I'm sorry,” Steve mumbled, then turned away and ducked his head. “Hello?” he whispered.

“Steve?” Bucky's voice on the other end of line was loud enough to be heard by all.

“What's going on? Everything all right?”

“Uh, I'm trying to make those microwave corn dogs but I can't find any mustard in the kitchen.”

“Did you look in the fridge?”

“Yeah, but there's none in there.”

Then Steve remembered using the last of it on a sandwich two days ago. “I think we're out, Bucky. I'm sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don't know, just eat them by themselves. Plain. I'm sorry, I don't know what to tell you.”

“No, I need mustard.”

“No you don't. You'll be fine. Now I have to go. 'Bye, Bucky.” Steve hung up and slipped the phone in his pocket. “Sorry, go ahead,” he said, gesturing to Tony.

“No worries,” Tony said, “Trust me, Pepper's called me at inopportune moments with questions much less important than mustard.”

Steve didn't appreciate the insinuation but he stayed quiet. 

“Where was I? Whatever – the point is we are all in the business of saving lives and fighting the good fight and while it feels great to be a hero the truth is it comes with the cost of having any sort of healthy personal life. Let's be real – we all have things we want to do besides being constantly ready and available every time some evil fuck decides to do something stupid. Thor, you have a super-hot genius girlfriend and I remember hearing you say something about medical school. Natasha, the fact that I had to literally hunt you down must say something about your desire to do something besides kicking ass. Clint, the arrow necklace on Natasha's neck tells me all I need to know about your interests. And Cap, you have important issues with mustard that need your attention...”

As if on cue, Steve's phone went off. “Hello?”

“I think I'm gonna go next door and ask the neighbors for some.”

What? Steve couldn't get Bucky to say hello to the neighbors and now he wanted to go door-to-door, panhandling for mustard. “No, Bucky, that's – that's a very strange thing to do. Just deal without mustard. If you absolutely need something, use ketchup or hot sauce.”

“No, I can't do that. I need mustard. I'll call Sam and tell him to bring me some.”

“No, you won't. Don't you dare!”

“Then I guess I have to go to the store.”

“ _Bucky_ , it's not the end of the world. You can eat corn dogs without mustard.” Steve had been steadily raising his voice, and now he was practically shouting. He looked around at the room full of raised eyebrows. “Now I'm in the middle of something and I have to go. Okay?”

Bucky exhaled into the phone.

“Enjoy your corn dogs and get ready for Sam to come and pick you up. Goodbye.”

Steve put his phone back and crossed his arms over his chest. Bruce had a finger pressed over his lips that was obviously hiding an amused smile.

“We got the mustard thing pretty much under control there, Cap?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, I'm – sorry.”

“No, no apologies,” Tony assured. “Not only do we want to enjoy our lives, we want to make sure they're not taken from us. Every person in this room is lucky to be alive, and eventually that luck is going to run out for one or more of us. With that in mind, I have designed something that will effectively make the Avengers obsolete. Lady and gentlemen, meet Ultron!” Tony pulled the sheet away and revealed a robotic beast that looked an awful lot like Tony's suit if a little more sinister. “Utilizing the AI technology I developed for Jarvis and combining it with all the advantages of the Iron Man suit, I have created the perfect warrior – no offense, Cap. He can fly, shoot lasers out of his eye – which is really cool but Pepper made me promise not to do it inside – and he can repair his own damage. His intelligence is a program that can penetrate the technology of his enemies and use it against them. He's made of the same vibranium alloy as Cap's shield, giving him a strength and power that would make the Winter Soldier jealous – again, no offense, Rogers. Using materials in his environment, he can even design foot soldiers to help him achieve his missions...”

Steve felt a vibration in his pocket as Tony went on and on about his creation. A text, and it had to be Bucky. Steve realized that he had gotten no verbal confirmation from him that he would not go to the store. Damn.

As everyone stepped closer to admire the machine, Steve used the opportunity to look at his phone. There was a photograph of a grocery shelf full of mustard.

From: Bucky 5:47 pm  
 _which one? there’s lots._

So he had gone anyway. Steve wondered if he ran there, since they had only spoken moments before.

From: Steve 5:48 pm  
 _What did I say about going to the store? I said NO. How did you get there so fast anyway?_

From: Bucky 5:49 pm

_motorcycle_

Steve felt the heat rise immediately to his face. He angrily hit the call button.

“Steve? Which is the regular kind?”

“What are you doing with my motorcycle?!” Steve shouted, ignoring Bucky's question. Everyone in the room turned away from Ultron to look at him.

“I wanted to be fast so the corndogs don't get cold.” Bucky answered meekly.

“You've never driven that thing before. What if something happens?”

“I know how to drive a motorcycle, Steve. Now what kind of mustard should I buy. I don't see the one you usually get.”

“Just get the one that says French's on it and go straight home. _Carefully_ We're gonna have a talk about this when I get back.”

Steve hung up and joined the group.

“Still having mustard problems?” Tony asked.

Steve rolled his eyes in response. 

While Tony continued describing all the different types of death-dealing his new toy was capable of, Natasha leaned into Steve's ear and whispered, “He taught me to fly a plane, Steve. I'm pretty sure he can handle your motorcycle.”

“That's not the point. He doesn't have a license. What if he gets pulled over?” Steve whispered back. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the conversation

“ _Ultron_ , huh?” Clint asked, “Sounds kind of comic booky, don't you think, Stark?”

“Well, it was between that and Bobo the Maximizer.”

“I still think we should have gone with Bobo,” Bruce said. “Sounds more endearing. Ultron sounds like something we would _fight_.”

“It's interesting that you say that,” Steve spoke up, “because from the way Tony's been describing Ultron, it _seems_ like something we would fight.”

“What are you trying to say, Rogers?” Tony asked.

“What I'm trying to say is that there's a reason you fight wars with men. You can give a machine intelligence but you can't give it a moral sense. You said something about how it chooses it's own targets based on what it perceives as a threat. Well, what if it perceives us as a threat, then what?”

“Really, Rogers?” Tony mocked. “I'm surprised you even heard me when I said that because as far as I can tell, all you've been thinking about is mustard since you walked in here.”

“It doesn't take that much concentration to realize you've created a monster.”

“Look, Cap, I'm glad you've been catching up on pop culture, but _Terminator_ was not a documentary. And furthermore, after you laid waste to Shield, you left the citizens of this country wide open to attack. Now I'm a weapons designer, and I design weapons to protect people.”

Thor, who had been quiet since they entered the lab, suddenly spoke. “I stand with Captain Rogers on this. The beast has no heart, but you say it possesses a strong sense of self-preservation. That is a dangerous combination for a thing of it's power. And if a day comes when you wish to relieve it of it's consciousness, it will surely fight for itself.”

“What?” Tony said, “You're on _his_ side. I can't believe this. Romanov, tell me you see the value of this thing.”

Natasha shrugged.

“Oh I get it,” Tony put his hands on his hips, “you and Steve are homies now so you're gonna go along with whatever he says. Barton, this is the man that destroyed the organization you gave your life to. Please don't say that you think he's right, too.”

Clint blew his cheeks out and scratched his head uneasily. “I don't know, Stark -”

“- Oh great,” Tony cuts in, not needing to hear the rest of it. “Well, Banner, I guess we spent the last year and a half creating this gift only to be made to feel like we're fucking Skynet.”

“Honestly, Tony,” Bruce said, frowning, “ even I've had some reservations about this project since we started it.”

“Are you kidding me!” Tony looked around the lab, meeting the eyes of every Avenger in turn. “Well, believe it or not, folks, I didn't ask you all here because I needed your approval. Ultron is happening. I have an appointment with the Defense Department next week and Ultron should be up and running by the end of this month. With or without the Avengers' blessing.”

“Well if you don't care what we think,” Steve said, “then I don't even know why I'm standing here.”

 

 

Five minutes later Steve was packing his bag in his room, acutely aware of being watched by Jarvis. He had decided to leave that night. 

“Captain Rogers, am I to understand that you will be departing early?” Jarvis asked.

“Yep.”

“Will you be needing any travel arrangements?”

“No, Jarvis, I've got it under control.”

“Well, I'm sure the team will be as sorry as I am to see you go.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Jarvis was still hounding him on the elevator, desperate to be of some help and asking if he should have the driver bring a car around. Steve had had enough of robots. He was relieved when he found himself out on the street, but it took him ten minutes to find a cab driver that was willing to drive him to the airport. The only flight to DC that had available seats left at eleven. During the wait, he decided to give Bucky a heads up.

From: Steve 9:03 pm  
 _I'm coming home late tonight so don't be freaked out when you hear me come in._

From: Bucky 9:04 pm  
 _why. motorcycle?_

From: Steve 9:06 pm  
 _No. Other reasons. Not you._

From: Bucky 9:07 pm  
 _Your not angry?_

From: Steve 9:10 pm  
 _No! Can't sleep there. One robot was watching me all the time and then there was another one that I'm pretty sure will be the next reason I have to take up the shield. Long story. Explain it when I see you._

From: Bucky 9:11 pm  
 _OK_

From: Steve 9:16 pm  
 _Did you ever go to the movies?_

From: Bucky 9:17 pm  
 _am watching movie now_

From: Steve 9:18 pm  
 _You're in the theater? Why didn't you tell me. You can't text during a movie. Stop now._

From: Bucky 9:19  
 _OK bye_

 

 

It was three in the morning when Steve pushed open the door to his apartment. The living room was dark and the couch was empty. Whatever, he thought. They had shared a bed in their Brooklyn apartment all those years ago so he figured he could slip in beside Bucky. Steve opened his bedroom door and heard the sheets rustling in the darkness as Bucky sat up.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, “do you mind if I turn the light on for a minute?”

“No,” a sleepy voice answered, “go ahead.”

Steve flipped the switch and started walking towards the bed. When he looked at Bucky, he stopped dead in his tracks. “What happened to your _hair_?” Steve asked, shocked.

“I cut it.” Bucky said, yawning and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “It's just like in the picture you showed me. I took it with me to Sam's barber, and he cut it the same way.” Bucky smiled. “I told him Sergeant Barnes was my grandfather.”

It was uncanny. Bucky looked strange and yet more familiar than ever. He looked exactly as he had when they were kids, even down to the way it stuck out in every direction after he had been sleeping on it. Steve laughed, then leaned over to ruffle Bucky's head.

“Do you like it?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, it just takes some getting used to. You're not all scruffy anymore.” Then Steve felt a sinking in his heart. “I guess you don't need me to brush it now.”

“You can still brush it,” Bucky said, “I have stuff to put on it and the barber said you should part it here.” He pointed to the side of his head.

“So now I'm doing your hair every morning.”

“If you want to.”

“Of course,” Steve said as he flopped down on the bed fully clothed and pulled the covers over him. “You know I don't mind.”

Bucky started gathering his pillow and blankets.

“Where are you going?” Steve asked.

“I guess you want me to go back out on the couch now that you're home...”

“No,” Steve said, “I'm not going to kick you out. You're fine, just turn out the light and come back to bed.”

Bucky hit the light switch and jumped back in bed, taking Steve's arm in his hand and snuggling himself so close that Steve could feel his breath on his neck. At first Steve stiffened, but then relaxed when he remembered how during the war they had often slept in each other's arms to share warmth. Why should it be different now?

It's not like they were kissing or anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I promise I'll finally justify the explicit rating in the last chapter.


	6. Hair Parts, Anal Probes, and The Green-Eyed Monster as Emotional Laxative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to SoldierLostInTime.

Bucky slept in Steve's bed every night after that. The first week he asked, and Steve always said yes, (mostly because there was no reason why it should be _yes_ one night and _no_ another) and honestly it did nothing to inhibit Steve's comfort. But there was appearances to think of. Bucky was in the bath one afternoon (this obsession now included bringing the laptop into the bathroom for music, and it was clearly time for him to have his own computer) when Steve decided to fold his old blankets and set them and his pillow conspicuously by the couch, just in case Sam or whoever came by. 

The morning of his return, after sleeping until about two pm, Steve awoke to a phone loaded with messages and missed calls from Natasha and Tony. He called Natasha first.

“Hey, what's up?” she answered in a cool tone.

“Uuh, that's... that's sort of what I was going to ask you. You're the one that called me five times in the last six hours.”

“Oh,” Natasha answered like it was years ago, “I was just making sure that you hadn't declared war on us. You're a somewhat formidable opponent.”

“No, I just...” Steve looked around to make sure Bucky wasn't within hearing range, “I had some issues at home that couldn't wait, that's all.”

“Hmm,” Natasha hummed, clearly not buying it, “well you should give Tony a call. He's on a bender, going back and forth between you not appreciating his genius and lamenting all the mustard and hair-parting comments.”

“Sure, I'll give him a call.”

“Everything good at home? You know what they say, absence makes the heart grow -”

“- I said I'll give Tony a call.”

Talking to Tony was easier than he imagined, mostly because Steve didn't get much of a chance to talk. Tony apologized about everything he did that rubbed Steve the wrong way and some other things Steve didn't even remember happening, and then just admitted that Ultron might seem a little iffy but would he please just give Tony the benefit of the doubt. Steve didn't have the energy or the authority to argue, so he just wished him luck, still pretty sure the Ultron situation was going to be a problem in the near future.

In the meantime, there was nothing better to do than enjoy life. It was easy getting by with inexpensive tastes and the army deciding that since you've been enlisted (albeit frozen) for the last seventy years, they owe you some back-pay. That's why it was so easy to look after Bucky. There had been discussion about him maybe applying for the same benefits, but, there was a wide variance in the way people who knew he was living defined Sgt. James Barnes. Steve thought he was a serviceman, a hero, and a prisoner of war, but other people used words like mercenary, terrorist, assassin, goon, murderer... the list goes on and on. In other words, the army was much less likely to hand Bucky a few hundred thousand dollars as quickly as they had handed it to Captain America. 

Not that they needed the money. Besides - Bucky suddenly being financially set would probably mean his moving out. And Steve didn't think Bucky was ready for that yet. No, Bucky still definitely needed to be with Steve.

Speaking of things going back to normal – the hair. Steve combed and styled Bucky's hair for him every morning, remembering how he used to watch Bucky do his own hair when they were kids. 

“I think you're doing it wrong,” Bucky said the first morning Steve resumed his hair duties, changed though they may be. Buck was kneeling on a pillow right in front of the bathroom mirror, with Steve standing over him, constantly glancing between the mirror and the back of Bucky's head as he dragged a wet comb through the new haircut.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, dipping the comb beneath the running faucet.

“You're supposed to part it on the right side, the other way. The barber cut it just for that,” Bucky complained softly. From the look on his face, Steve could tell he wasn't enjoying this procedure as much as he used to. He was frowning at himself in the mirror as his head bounced around with the motion of the comb. 

“No, men are supposed to part it on the _left_ ,” Steve corrected. “It's more masculine, it's what Superman does, and it's how you always, always parted your own hair.”

Bucky looked up to Steve. “But you -”

“- I know, I know,” Steve said, already expecting his own wrongly-right-parted hair to come up in this argument. “But I have a really huge cowlick on my right side, there's nothing I can do about it. You, however, are a different story.”

This had actually only become an issue for Steve recently. Tony had clued everyone into the sins of incorrectly-parted male hair during the last drunken session at the Avengers Tower before they went down to the lab to meet Ultron. According to Tony, it was ironic that a team of heroes had two male members with hair parted on the right – Steve and Bruce. 

“That's the hair part of nerds and villains,” Tony had said. “It was proven in a study a while back that people are naturally attracted to men with hair parted on the left. They're seen to be more masculine, assertive, and trustworthy than men who part on the right. Men who part on the right come off as duplicitous and effeminate. The Joker parts his hair on the right. So does Hannibal Lecter and Tom Cruise. Who wants to be a part of that set? Not me. I'm exclusively left-parted now.”

Bruce was self-consciously fussing with his hair in the mirror behind the bar at this moment. Thor, whose masculinity could never be questioned, said he would join Steve in his right-parted ways, so that his comrade would not be alone. Clint said he wasn't changing his hair part for anybody, but then again he always parted on the left. 

Steve didn't have a choice in the matter but the least he could do was save his friend from the tragic ranks of right-parted men. 

“You like it this way?” Bucky asked, turning his head in the mirror after Steve had finished.

“I do.” Steve set his hands on his hips proudly, admiring his masterpiece. “You look handsome, Buck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky brushed his palm across his smooth hair, looking up at Steve like a child eager to please. “Okay, we can do it like this.”

* * *

Sleeping together was okay but Steve worried that it was encouraging Bucky to indulge his new touchy-feely nature. And worse, he knew how to get away with it, to push the limits to the point just before Steve would say anything or push him away. He seemed to understand what sort of things Steve would allow, and when he would allow it, and took every advantage. 

He kept his distance in public, but if Steve was sitting on their reasonably large couch, Bucky would sit directly next to him, taking Steve's arm and often laying his head on Steve's shoulder. If Steve got up to do something, he would always have to go back to the same spot and let Bucky have his arm and shoulder, because, you know, he would never make Bucky feel _unwanted_. Sometimes Bucky would fiddle with Steve's clothes, or his watch. He would lean far over Steve's lap to get something from the table when it would have been easier to stand up for it. He would read over Steve's shoulder, drink out of Steve's glass, or ask for a bite of anything Steve was eating. Everything had to be shared. 

In bed, they had to be touching. At first it would be just an elbow, or a foot, or a knee. Steve guessed it made him feel safe. But then Steve started waking up realizing he was being spooned. After that he was being spooned before he even fell asleep. 

Steve was like a frog in a pot of slowly boiling water. Bucky kept taking more and more liberties, but he did so so slowly that Steve only occasionally had clear moments where he realized how weird things had gotten.

Then the surprise attacks started. Steve would be making a sandwich, or shaving, or talking on the phone, and Bucky would come up behind him and wrap him in his arms. He would squeeze a little, press his face into Steve's neck, and let go before Steve felt like he should say something. It was all getting too intimate. Steve had never had a girlfriend, but he was pretty sure this was what living with one was like.

The idea of Bucky meeting someone arose in his mind again. That was what Bucky needed – a girl to touch and hold and share ice cream spoons with. But how would that work? Would he be in the bedroom with her while Steve slept on the couch listening to them? He could remember doing that very thing in Brooklyn ages ago, but that wasn't really something he wanted to relive. Bucky could spend nights at her place, but then Steve imagined himself lying awake all night with his phone in his hand, worried sick. Maybe Bucky wasn't ready for a serious girlfriend, but just _meeting_ and talking to a girl might get his head straightened out, get him to understand what it was that he really wanted. They should go dancing.

His desire to take Bucky for a real night on the town became more urgent a week after Steve bought him his own laptop for his ninety-fifth birthday. One afternoon, when Steve was impatient to resolve an automatic bill pay issue and his own laptop was going through a some kind of endless update process, he asked to use Bucky's. 

“It's in the bedroom,” Bucky answered without looking away from the UFO documentary he was watching.

Steve saw it lying on the bed and flipped it open, then tapped the internet icon in the bottom corner. The window flew open to a page where his mind instantly recognized the sight of naked flesh, and it took him another split second to realize he was looking at two naked men doing – _something_ to each other. He panicked. Suddenly he forgot how a computer worked. He was shaking, the cursor flying wildly over the naked men as he looked for some button to make it disappear. Flustered, he slammed the thing shut. 

He sat very still for a few minutes, his mind blank, his body trying to come down from the sort of adrenaline rush usually reserved for deadly combat. The bill thing was forgotten. 

After a few minutes he looked back at the closed laptop, disbelieving that such an innocent little machine was capable of the disturbance he had just experienced. Maybe it really wasn't. After all, why would Bucky leave something like that on there and not mind if Steve went and saw it? Why would Bucky have something like that on his computer anyway? Maybe his mind was playing tricks. He reached for the laptop again, but stopped short. It would be better not to know for sure.

Steve crept back into the living room and stood silently behind the couch, watching Bucky fearfully as if it was a bloody murder weapon he had just found in their room.

Sensing his presence, Bucky asked, “Steve?”

Steve's mouth had gone completely dry. “Yeah?” he croaked.

Bucky pointed at the screen. “Do they really do this? I mean, are they real?”

Steve hadn't even noticed what horror was taking place on his television set. A screaming man was being clamped down on a table and having metal objects inserted into various parts of his body while naked rubbery monsters fitted a device onto the man's head and shot electricity into his brain. It was all a little too like some of the things Steve had read in Bucky's file.

“Oh, God, Buck!” Steve broke out of his trance and came around the couch to grab the remote and switch the channel. 

“Hey! I wanted to see how the anal probe works!”

“What? Why would you want to see some guy get something shoved up his rear-end?” Steve asked, trying not to make any connections between his question and the trauma he had just experienced in the bedroom. 

“Because I think we should fight them if they're kidnapping and experimenting on people.”

“Well, that's very noble of you but we already killed all the aliens that actually exist. Well, there's Thor, of course, but he's an all right guy. Besides, there's other things for you to do in life besides fighting. Like dancing! Remember when we talked about dancing all those months ago? Well, I think we should try that again.” 

Bucky sat up while Steve was speaking and scooted closer to him, setting his chin on Steve's shoulder and playfully biting at the fabric of his T-shirt, cementing in Steve's mind that this talk they were about to have was not only necessary but probably overdue.

“We didn't try dancing,” Bucky mumbled. “We never went.”

“I know, I couldn't _get_ you to go.”

Bucky groaned and and tucked his face between Steve's back and the couch like a child trying to hide from a chore he didn't want to do. “I don't know how to dance, Steve.”

“You used to be a great dancer,” Steve said, leaning forward as Bucky pushed further behind him, “You'll get the hang of it. I'm sure plenty of girls will be happy to teach you.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve's waist and pulled him closer. Steve still wasn't used to being handled by someone of equal strength, so he was often caught off guard. “Why don't you teach me?” Bucky's coy voice in no way matched the force he used to pull Steve on top of him.

Steve struggled to get up but couldn't without getting rough. “Because I... you don't _need_ dancing lessons. Not anymore. You just... put your arms around a girl and move around the way _she_ does.”

Bucky released Steve, and after sitting up, Steve could see that bitter, pinched face he wore whenever he didn't get his way. “I don't want to go if you won't teach me. I'll be embarrassed.”

“Trust me, I'm no better than you. It's like riding a bike, you never forget. Once you have your hands on a girl, it'll come as natural as, say, kissing a girl.”

Bucky did not look thrilled.

* * *

“Gotta say, Buck. You look pretty swell in your glad rags!” 

Bucky was standing in the middle of the living room, all clean and trussed up. He did look great. If only he didn't look so miserable, too. “I guess I'm ready to go,” he moped.

They had gone shopping and bought the nicest pair of denim trousers money could buy and a fancy blue dress shirt that perfectly matched Bucky's eyes. Two hours ago Steve gave him the closest, most immaculate shave possible and then spared another ten minutes on his hair. He was set to be a lady-killer but he was acting like a big baby.

Steve stuffed a few bills in Bucky's front pocket.

“Why are you giving me that?”

“In case you meet a nice girl and want to buy her a drink.”

“Can't they buy their own drinks?”

Steve let out a heavy sigh. “With that attitude, Bucky, I don't think you're gonna get a girl on the dance floor let alone first base.”

"Wait - baseball?"

"No," Steve shook his head. "Forget it, let's go."

 

They took a cab to U Street and got out a few blocks before the club because the traffic was stopped. As they walked to the club, Bucky kept his head hung low and his hands buried in his pockets. Steve tried to coach him as well as he could on talking to girls, which he really knew nothing about, instead relying on tips Bucky himself had once given him.

“Uhm, let's see, you've got to smile, you've got to have confidence, and you have to look them in the eye. You have really nice eyes, Bucky, so they'll like that. Go ahead and tell them that you can't dance very well, and just say something like, "you're so beautiful I just had to ask you for a dance even though I'm probably going to embarrass myself."”

“What about my hand. People always stare. These _girls_ are going to be scared of it.” He said _girls_ like they were still only theoretical beings in his mind.

“No they won't. Tell them it's a fancy space-age prosthetic. You don't need to mention that it was designed to tear car doors off their hinges,” Steve replied. “I know! You know so many languages - try telling them nice things in Italian, Hungarian, or Romanian - something exotic. You know those, right?”

Bucky replied with the most unenthusiastic _yeah_ Steve had ever heard in his life.

“Yeah, that'll be good. It's okay to show off a little. That'll help keep the conversation going. And ask them lots of questions about themselves.” Steve had already mentioned that last piece of advice a few times because Bucky talking about himself was going to be a problem. They were at a crosswalk, looking at the club across the street. “You ready to knock 'em dead?” Steve gripped Bucky's shoulder and shook his limp body.

“So,” Bucky started, processing his instructions, “I stare at one in the eyes and tell her to dance with me in Romanian, then afterwards I give her alcohol and make her tell me about her life.”

“Well,” Steve scratched his head, wondering how his advice had been interpreted so bizarrely, “that'll make you seem kinda like Dracula but I guess some girls are into that. Just do whatever comes naturally.”

It turned out that what came naturally to Bucky was slouching at their table with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the full beer he sipped once and clearly didn't like. 

It was a nice place; there was live music, not too loud, it wasn't crowded and people were dancing. But Bucky wouldn't know. He hadn't lifted his eyes from the table since they sat down.

Steve on the other hand was enjoying his beer and the atmosphere. He went back to the bar to get another drink for Bucky, this time something blue with several pieces of fruit in it. He liked that better. Steve finished Bucky's beer, which tasted great though the only effect it had was making him need to pee. Steve excused himself to the restroom.

When he walked out of the bathroom, he could see Bucky. He was leaning forward on the table, cradling his face in his hand, looking miserable as he glided his glass back and forth idly with his metal fingers. Then Steve had a revelation - women were different now, they approached men as regularly as men approached women, and since Bucky was clearly not going to approach one of them tonight, it was very possible that a girl might come and talk to such a handsome guy looking so sad and sitting by himself. His chances were better if Steve wasn't with him. 

Bucky started glancing around, so Steve took a seat at the bar, hiding. He was only there for a minute, watching Bucky like some kind of woman-bait, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. It was a young woman, pretty, beaming at him.

“I've been watching you,” she said shyly, “I know who you are.”

Steve straightened, wondering how he could get out of this. 

“No, it's okay, I'm not going to broadcast or take pictures or anything. It's just,” she blushed, “I've had a crush on you since I was a little girl, and I would never forgive myself if I didn't take the chance to ask you for a dance.”

Who on earth with half a heart could say no? The next song had a forgivably slow tempo so hopefully he wouldn't step all over the poor girl while he tried to dance with her.

He led her onto the dance floor and offered his hands, but she pressed up close and wrapped herself around him. They twirled around, her looking up at him with stars in her eyes while he kept watching Bucky, who was alternating between looking bored, miserable, and worried. Steve let his partner take the lead, and as they glided around the floor (well, she was gliding, Steve was doing more of a clumsy scoot) they eventually were completely exposed to Bucky's view. When Steve saw him looking, he waved and gave Bucky a playful sort of “what can you do?” shrug, but Bucky did not seem to be amused. Steve twirled around and when Bucky's table was in view again, he saw the blur of a figure rounding the corner to the exit and the fruity drink sitting abandoned at the table.

Steve stopped.

“What's wrong?” the girl asked.

“Uuhh...” Steve smiled, unwrapping himself from her arms. “I really have to go, I'm sorry...” 

He left her standing there, not looking back once in his hurry to get out the door.

Bucky was out on the street, hands jammed in his pockets, taking long strides toward the crosswalk they had waited at less than an hour before.

“Bucky!” 

Bucky turned around, and even from fifteen yards away Steve could see the bitter sneer on his face. He turned his back on Steve and quickened his pace.

“What the...? Bucky!” 

This time he didn't even turn around.

For a moment Steve was frozen. What was going on? Did something snap inside Bucky? After all these months of stable progress was something finally triggered? Steve had to get to him. 

He got his feet moving. It was a busy Friday night on U Street and the sidewalk was packed. Steve said “'scuse me” so many times he was getting tongue-tied, slipping between people with as much courtesy as possible as he tried to reach Bucky. When he could catch a glimpse of him, Bucky was plowing straight ahead, moving quickly while everyone practically fell all over each other trying to get out of his path, even tough-looking kids, the type who usually love to start fights over things like that. It made sense. Steve had seen that reaction a few times before – the shaky grocery clerk who forgot their change and seemed more afraid of Bucky than her boss for the mistake, the panhandler who aggressively begs everyone for change at the gas station but limps quickly past Bucky, the loud kids who play ball in the street, careless of everything until they see Bucky, then huddling together and holding their ball until he passed. Maybe Steve was immune to the smell of the blood on his hands, but to some it was still potent. No wonder he hadn't been approached in the club.

Bucky got to the intersection and walked right into the traffic, cars screeching to a halt as they yielded to him just as the crowd did.

Steve shouted, “Damn it! Bucky!” He began pushing, desperate to get to Bucky before something terrible happened. Luckily the traffic was stopped by the time he got to the crosswalk. He ran through it, and continued running until he got his hand on that hard metal arm. He whipped Bucky around. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

Bucky broke out of his hold and kept walking. “Leave me alone.” His voice was broken and Steve was sure he had seen red and swollen eyes.

“Are you crying?”

“I said leave me _alone!_ ” The last word was shouted.

“You know I'm not going to do that!” Steve took a few steps and grabbed his arm again.

This time Bucky shook it off furiously. “Stop grabbing me! You never touch me in a nice way!”

“What?” Steve was stung, confused. “I touch you in a nice way constantly! Maybe even too -”

“- No you don't! I touch _you_ but you never touch _me_! You won't even dance with me!”

Steve cocked his head and tried to wrap his mind around what was going on. Bucky started walking again. 

“Wait – is that what this about? Jealousy? You're jealous of the girl I was dancing with?” 

Bucky glared at him over his shoulder.

Steve laughed as he jogged to catch up. “Bucky, that was – c'mon this is ridi -”

“Don't laugh!” He stopped and pointed at Steve, his voice high-pitched and desperate. Big feelings were being forced into small words, and each one of them sounded like they were about to explode. “I do things, for _you_. Lots of things. I try hard, to be good, to make you happy. To be a person. This person you want me to be. I'm scared, and I pretend not to be. I see things – inside, and I pretend I don't. I look at pictures, and I pretend that's me. I try, but it never works. I will always fail to be good for you. I can never make you love me. All I want is for you to touch me, to show me I'm good.” A tear finally spilled over, tracing Bucky's cheek. “Even _they_ would do that for me.”

It felt like a punch in the gut. Steve was not only speechless, he could barely breathe. He actually felt dizzy, something he hadn't felt since – well, since the first time he saw Bucky's face after seventy years. He stumbled backwards and steadied himself against a parking meter. 

Bucky dug in his pockets and found the key ring Steve had made for him. He threw it at Steve's feet. The look on his face said everything.

“Oh god, Bucky, no...” Steve sobbed drily. 

Bucky joined the crowd and disappeared into it. 

Steve bent over to pick up the keys. They were still warm from Bucky's pocket. Leaning back against the parking meter and looking at the keys in the palm of his hand, he heard a woman's voice. “You better go get him, boo...” 

Steve looked up across the street and saw three women smoking cigarettes in the doorway of a bar. Apparently Steve and Bucky had had an audience.

“...yeah he's mad with you, baby, but he wants you to bring him home, believe me.” she laughed. “I pull that shit all the time.

“And,” said the girl leaning on her shoulder, “you better do right and give him all the touching he wants. Sounds like you got a lotta making up to do.”

“You're right,” he said, moving off the parking meter. He waved at them even though he could see they were amused by his pain. “Thank you.”

Steve had no qualms about pushing through the crowd. He was about to lose Bucky, and he couldn't let that happen again. Steve worried that he might have turned down another street, but when he finally caught sight of him ahead in the crowd, he knew the women outside the bar were right – Bucky wanted to be found.

“Bucky!”

He turned around, and to Steve's absolute relief, stopped. When Steve got to him, he pulled him to the side of the crowd and wrapped his arms around his whole body, rocking him gently. Bucky's body went limp. This was all he had ever wanted.

“Let's go home and talk about all this,” Steve spoke gently into his ear. “Please, just let me take you home.”

“I don't want to live with you anymore,” Bucky was sobbing again, his face buried in Steve's neck. “It's too hard...”

“Shhh,” Steve said, holding him tighter. “I know it's been hard for you. That's my fault but we can change that. It shouldn't be hard for you. Besides, what are you gonna do - sleep in the park and steal food?”

“I survived for a while before I found you...”

“No, no, no,” Steve said. “I won't let you live like that ever again, so - I guess you're stuck with me.”

Bucky didn't argue, only sniffled and finally put his arms around Steve's waist. That was as good as an answer. Steve was being forgiven. He squeezed Bucky even closer, stroking his back, doing his best make up for all the lost affection he had been denying him. Steve heard himself humming softly, not even meaning to do it, but so thankful that Bucky was going to let him win this... fight? Was it a fight they just had? He was sure that's what it looked like to the people on the street.

“Everything's gonna be better, I promise. No more crying for you. You've done enough of that, I know.” Steve let his fingers comb gently through Bucky's hair. He actually thought about kissing him, just a peck on his ear or forehead, but there had to be limits. They were already a source of laughter to everyone walking by. Even straight couples would be embarrassed. 

Steve had to admire the way Bucky did not give a single, solitary damn on this score. All of Steve's cooing promises had him wrapping his arms tighter and tighter, breathing heavy and rubbing his face around in Steve's neck like a cat. 

Steve's victory wasn't really secure until they were actually _at_ home. He had to get them into a taxi first.

He lifted Bucky's head out of his neck and cradled his face. He was so handsome, even when he was swollen and soggy. Steve used to wonder at it. He knew he would never be that attractive, not to anyone. Bucky always thought he got girls because he was clever and funny, and Steve never had the heart to tell him that it was mostly his looks.

Steve used his thumbs to wipe away what was left of the tears. “Let's get a cab and go home. Okay?”

Bucky was slow to nod, then looked deep into Steve's eyes and said, “Kiss me first.”

“Kiss you?”

Bucky screwed his face all up again like Steve wasn't being sincere if he wouldn't kiss him right then and there. 

“Bucky, I want to kiss you, I really do, but not here.”

Bucky dropped his arms and Steve could feel everything slipping.

“Look, it's not matter of rules about us being men or anything like that. It's me, I'm shy. I don't want to kiss anyone on a busy street. If I kiss you here, because you make me, it'll be pretend. But if you can wait until we get home, I can kiss you how I _really_ want to.”

"You will?" Bucky wasn't convinced.

"Yeah."

“Okay. Let's go home.”


	7. The Tent, Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who has given comments and kudos. It's great to have you all to share this crazy fantasy with.

There were more people wanting cabs than there were cabs on U Street, but Steve finally managed to flag one down. He ushered Bucky inside and immediately took his hand to show him that he really meant all the things he said on the sidewalk. Being the one to initiate affection was going to take some getting used to, but the way Bucky intertwined their fingers and squeezed back felt so good that Steve doubted it would take long. 

He had promised a kiss and he was going to have to make good on it. He couldn't tell if he was more excited or horrified as they climbed the stairs. At the door, he handed Bucky his keys back so he could open up.

While Steve took his coat off he could feel Bucky's eyes watching him, waiting. 

Steve walked over to him, took his jaw in both hands and placed a silent, chaste kiss to his lips. Then he smiled amiably.

Bucky glared up at him and shoved his hands away. “That was a pretend kiss.”

“Look, Bucky – before we get into all the kissing stuff I think we should -”

“That was _bullshit!_ ”

Steve was stunned. He hadn't realized Bucky's vocabulary had expanded so much.

Bucky pointed at the front door, shouting, “Everything you said out there was bullshit!”

Steve raised his voice to match. “Just kissing and making up _doesn't work._ You said a lot of things that I think we need to - _hey_!”

Bucky was rushing for the door. Steve made a grab for him, got only a sleeve, and in a moment of clarity, just let go.

“Fine,” he said, turning away. “I'm not chasing you any more. You wanna go, _go_.” He threw himself onto the couch and tossed an arm over his face. The door opened - he could hear it - and then he waited a second or so before he heard it slam. It was quiet after that.

It took only a moment for Steve to let go and start crying. He imagined Bucky out there on the street, walking further and further away, and it was all he could do to to stay put on the couch. Feeling sorry for himself was a welcome distraction he thought he'd never have a use for. He buffered it by reminding himself that Bucky knew where Steve was and when he was finished being an idiot he would certainly return. Steve had done everything he could to accommodate him and he shouldn't have to force Bucky to accept his kindness. He allowed himself to cry as hard as he could to keep himself from running out the door, and it turned out he could cry pretty hard – hard enough to soak the shirt sleeve he was using to block out the world. Finally, when he had to interrupt his pitiful indulgence to blow his nose, he sat up and almost jumped when he saw that he was not alone.

Bucky was leaning against the wall, biting his lip to keep from smiling too broadly. “You cry like a girl.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Whole time,” Bucky shrugged. “Never went anywhere.”

Steve shook his head. “That's not right, Bucky,” he said, his nose plugged up. “That's cruel.”

“What do you know about _cruel_?” Bucky asked, coming over to sit next to Steve on the couch.

“I know that I would never laugh in your face while you were in pain, making a fool of yourself and crying your eyes out.” 

All Bucky had to do was raise an eyebrow, and Steve had a sudden flashback to less than an hour ago, out on U Street.

“Okay,” Steve conceded, “so we're even.” He sat up and finally blew his nose, tired of hearing himself sounding so ridiculous and nasally. Then he tried to take back the upper hand. “So that's all I had to do, to get you to stop running away from me? Say I wasn't going to chase you anymore?”

Bucky shrugged again. “I was going to leave, but then I thought I would stick around to see what you'd do. You started crying so loud, you couldn't even hear me walk back over here.”

“Does that make you feel better? Knowing you can hurt me by being stupid? Is that a nice feather in your cap?” Steve snuggled down into the couch, turning his shoulder to Bucky. Sourly he wondered at how ornery and flippant Bucky was being. Everything from 'you cry like a girl' to 'what do you know about cruel' or the fact that he hadn't batted an eyelash at the 'feather in your cap' idiom was a little disturbing.

Steve turned an eye to Bucky, who had dropped onto the couch and was picking at the seam of Steve's jeans. “Say, why are you talking so funny all the sudden?”

“Talking funny like how?”

“Like _that!_ ” Steve got up on his elbows, peering at him, as if he was seeing him for the first time. “Bucky?” Steve sat all the way up, getting real close, daring Bucky to look away. “Have you been pulling my leg this whole time, acting so dumb?”

Bucky cocked his head back, looking at Steve like he was crazy. 

“For the past several months, when I've been able to get a response from you at all, it's only 'yeah' or 'no' or 'what' or 'I don't know.' And now all the sudden you're talking like, well, like you always used to.” Steve collapsed back into the couch.

Yet another cocky shrug. “Maybe seeing you laying here, acting like such a big baby makes me feel like my old self again.”

“I was never the big baby; that was _you_!” Steve whined, unable to stop his maturity level from plummeting to grade school. “But that _is_ just the sort of thing you loved to say to get me all roweled up!”

“I guess it still works.”

“I guess it does,” Steve said, kneeing him playfully in his side, “jerk.”

“Ow!” Bucky rubbed himself like it actually hurt. “So what - did you just want to beat me up, or were we going to talk?”

Steve got up on his elbows. “I want you to tell me what happened tonight. We were supposed to have a good time, and instead you flew off the handle, running down the street, shouting about how you don't want to live with me anymore, how you feel like you have to pretend to be someone else, and even saying that you...”

Bucky dropped his eyes and went back to picking at Steve's jeans. This was the part that they both wanted to forget.

“... that you liked it better when you were with _them._ ”

“I didn't say that. I only said – I can't remember what I said I just know that I wanted to hurt you. It's not true. I'm sorry.”

“Why, though?” Steve asked. “Why would you want to hurt me when all I've wanted to do is help you?”

Bucky shook his head. “No,” he said. “I know that's what you think you've been doing but really, it's me who's been trying to help you bring this Bucky that you love so much back to life. Sometimes I really wanted to be him, even believed that I _could_ be him. It was all for you though – I wanted to be the thing you love most -”

Steve was squirming. “Bucky, you are -”

“- but no matter how close I was, you still talked about how strong and confident and handsome he was... how everyone liked him and he made everyone laugh... how brave and good he was, and now I'm just tired of trying to live up to this smug son of a bitch.”

Steve, who had been hiding his face in a pillow, was actually offended. He threw the pillow aside to see Bucky glaring back at him. “Bucky, don't talk about yourself like that. There's no _him_ -”

“There is a _him,_ and he hates me as much as I hate him. You can't tell me that if you had described all the things I've done, how weak and lost I've been, to _him,_ that he wouldn't be happy to kill me, and even happier to watch me suffer.” 

Steve said nothing.

“I have a nightmare about him,” Bucky went on. “We're here, you and me, and everything is exactly like it always is – exactly like this. There's a knock at the door, and you answer it. It's _him._ You're so happy to have him back, and you welcome him in and take him in your arms. He looks like me, but somehow... brighter, taller, and cleaner. His voice is loud and you follow him wherever he goes, listening to him, doing things for him, laughing at his jokes. I try to remind you that I'm still here, and that I love you more than he does, but you won't listen. Then you forget about me altogether, and I become invisible. I try to get your attention, to tell you what's happening to me, but you can't hear me no matter how loud I scream. I'm a ghost, stuck here, watching the two of you living your happy life together. You never spare a single thought for me. The worst of it though, is that he _can_ hear me and see me, and sometimes looks right at me, mocking me while he does all the things with you that we used to do together.”

Steve was petrified. It took several moments for him to find his voice, and even then it was barely a whisper. “Bucky, that's the most terrible thing I've ever heard.” Steve cleared his throat and tried to shake the images away. “When did you have this dream – I mean, why haven't you ever told me about this before?”

“I thought it would scare you,” Bucky's nonchalant tone undermined Steve's horror, as though he had become accustomed to this morbid vision. 

“Yeah, it _does_ scare me!” Steve exclaimed. “But that doesn't answer the question of why you didn't tell me about this dream when you had it!”

“It's just a dream,” Bucky answered. “I've had it a few times -”

“A _few_ times?”

“- and I'm always so happy when I wake up that I just want to forget about it. It hasn't been until recently,” Bucky shrugged, “that I realized what it meant.”

“What it... _meant_?” Steve wanted badly to deny that it could be relevant in any way to their lives. “It's a nightmare, Bucky, a horrible, horrible -”

“It is,” Bucky said, pinching his brow, “but it's also... it's like a circle. The thing that makes me want to be him, is the way I feel about... you. I know you don't want me to feel that way, so that's the thing I'd have to give up, and I can't. I can't want the things he wants. I'd shut out that feeling, the thing that makes me feel the most like myself, and I'd just be this shiny, empty shell. So I want to be him, but the reason I want to be him, is -”

“It's a paradox, Bucky,” Steve broke in, almost rudely he realized, but only to mercifully end the painful confession for both of them. “I think that's the word you're looking for.”

“Yeah, that's it. A paradox.”

Steve sat up to gather Bucky in his arms and bury his own face in a hug. How many warnings had he been given about this doomed and ridiculous project of trying to fix his best friend? By Sam, by Natasha, by Bucky himself? And he had carried on, stupidly, at the expense of Bucky's already tattered emotions. 

Still, what hurt most right now, as he clung tighter to Bucky, was the fact that he was going to have to mourn again for the 'shiny, empty shell' that he had been trying to resurrect. Beneath his eyelids an elusive memory shown itself. 

Steve was about eleven, sitting at his open window and waiting for Bucky to come over. He could see Bucky walk around the corner of his street and trip on a lifted lip of sidewalk. He lost his balance and took a hard tumble, barely getting his hands out of his pockets in time to shield his face. Steve watched as Bucky began to cry pathetically, struggling to get up and fussing over his hurt elbows and knees. When he got to his feet, he was still sobbing, loud enough for Steve to catch a few strains all the way up in his room. As if sensing something, Bucky suddenly turned to Steve's open window in terror. Steve instinctively ducked back. Bucky watched his window for several minutes, wiping his tears and brushing himself off, not knowing that Steve was staring right back at him. When he finally came up to the door, palms and elbows all skinned and bloody, Steve's mom made a big deal cleaning him up while he smirked and kept insisting that it was nothing. Steve never told Bucky that he had seen him crying, in fact he never really told himself – he just hid that memory deep inside where it could be forgotten.

It seemed more than likely that he had imagined the episode anyway. He had seen Bucky stand up to three or more guys at a time, and take some pretty serious beatings, without ever shedding a single tear. He had fallen off of roofs, been hit by a dozen baseballs, and the only times Steve ever saw him get even a little moist was when his dad beat him up. 

The image of his mother gently bandaging Bucky's skinned-up elbow reminded Steve of how much she had loved him. She always spoke of how good it was that they looked after _each other_ , as if Steve had anything to offer Bucky in the way of protection. But maybe she saw what Steve wouldn't - the sensitive boy beneath the shiny, empty shell. She had told Steve once that she believed the only thing Bucky was afraid of was disappointing Steve. Maybe Steve, being so wrapped up in his admiration of Bucky, had never realized that he had Bucky wrapped around his little finger, trying his best to be whatever Steve wanted him to be.

It was possible that the man he held in his arms now – this emotional, affectionate, insecure and fragile being – was closer to the real thing than whatever Steve had ever known before. What he had thought was damage was really Bucky learning to become himself without the veneer he had lived beneath when they were young. 

“You know, Bucky,” Steve lifted his head out of the shoulder he had been smearing body fluids into, “you were kind of a punk back then. I think I actually like you better this way.”

“That's just bullshit again.”

“No, I mean it,” Steve said. “Like, look at this mess I just made out of your shirt. You never would have put up with that before.”

Bucky eyed his shoulder and shrugged. 

“See, that's what I'm saying,” Steve said. “I understand why you had that awful dream, and I know I'm responsible for it -”

“No -”

“ _Yes_ \- but it's not true. I think I would get sick of him real fast and wish I could have you back the way you are now. You're kind, you're funny - a lot funnier than you think you are - you're honest, and well... cuddly.”

“Cuddly?” Bucky asked. “I thought you hated that.”

“Well, I don't.”

“But you still don't want to dance.”

Steve sighed. “No, because I don't know _how._ You saw me dancing tonight. I looked ridiculous, didn't I?”

“ _She_ didn't seem to mind,” Bucky pouted.

“Well...” Steve didn't really know what to say to that.

Bucky perked up. “We can always go and take lessons...”

“Lessons? Like in public? We're two _guys,_ Bucky,” Steve laughed and shook his head. “I mean, honestly I'm a little jealous of your fearless disregard for social norms, especially concerning... you know, _that_ sort of stuff... I didn't mention it before, but I think that's what I would miss about you the most, if you changed. You're just... shameless.”

“Not true,” Bucky said. “I have a lot to be ashamed of. I've done horrible things, but loving someone, _you,_ and wanting to touch you and be close to you, I don't understand how that can be one of them.”

That cut to the core. “No, Bucky, you're right.” Steve almost went on to insist that he had _nothing_ to be ashamed of, but left it alone instead. It wouldn't be true, and even if it was, Steve had no right to tell Bucky how to feel about the things he had done. After all, if Steve were in his place, he would feel guilty as hell, too. “There's absolutely no reason to be ashamed of that. I'll sign us up for dance classes tomorrow morning.”

“No, you won't.”

Now that it was a challenge Steve was determined. “Oh, yes I will.”

“Do I get to lead?”

“Hell, no. That's where I draw the line. If you want to dance, I'm leading. Period.”

Bucky threw himself sloppily onto Steve, who still didn't realize he was being cleverly manipulated. It was for his own good, though. Dance classes and public displays of affection were a triumph but Bucky still hadn't gotten everything he wanted.

“I guess you want your kiss now,” Steve said, trying his best to sound like a dejected child that had just lost a bet.

Bucky didn't buy it. “You're the one that brought it up,” he pointed out, biting his lip.

“Well, I'm not known for breaking promises, even stupid ones that I _had_ to make...” Steve knew his pretense couldn't possibly be believed at this point so there was no harm in working up his courage with gibes. But still Bucky was there, right on top of him, eyes all twinkly, chewing his lip and smelling like... well like Bucky, that smell that now pervaded his couch and his bed and his laundry and the air he breathed and then there it was – he was being kissed.

At first it was just happening to him. It was wet and soft and wasn't at all like he was expecting. It wasn't dirty or weird, it was just... tickly. Not tickly in any place he was being touched though, it was deep inside, somewhere between his stomach and his throat, or, hell, some place that didn't exist. He wanted to laugh but instead he started kissing back, just a little, before he couldn't help it and he started giggling into Bucky's mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing, or... I don't know, just... you're _kissing_ me.” Yes, Steve realized how stupid and childish he sounded. He turned his face halfway into another pillow, but made sure his lips and one side of his face was still completely available in case Bucky wanted to continue.

And he did. The sweetest little kisses were being planted all around his chin and jaw, going chilly after Bucky's lips moved on. “You don't like it?” he cooed, and Steve couldn't help giggling again at the tone. What was happening? 

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, why don't you kiss me back?”

“I...” Steve could have argued the point, but he could see that a request was being made. He could definitely be a more active participant in this... whatever this was.

He abandoned the safety of the pillow and pressed into Bucky's mouth. Straining his neck was annoying so he laid back, pulling Bucky into him with both hands. He wasn't expecting Bucky to squirm and wriggle into him all... like _that._

He broke away from the kiss to tease. “Hey, what are you trying to do?”

Bucky didn't open his eyes and he didn't stop doing that _thing_ with his hips. “What's wrong?”

“I'm just letting you know that I wasn't born yesterday,” Steve said, not minding that he sounded like a hot dame in the clutches of an eager wolf, “ and I've seen your _computer._ ”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky's breath was hot and heavy against Steve's lips. “You've been snooping, huh?”

Steve just had to break the mood with an indignant whine. “I wasn't snooping! You told me I could -”

Luckily Bucky shut him up with another kiss, saving the moment. It was time for a more serious kind of kissing, and Bucky knew he was going to need to physically open Steve's jaw for that. Not that he put up much of a fight.

After a healthy exchange of fluids Steve was a little out of it, to say the least. He still managed to ask, “Okay - was that real enough for you, or do you have more demands?”

Bucky pursed his lips and cocked his brow like he was trying to think real hard. “I guess I have some ideas...”

“Yeah? And what are those?”

“Oh, I don't know if I should tell you what they call 'em. It might make your virgin ears go all red...”

“My ears are not virgin – I don't know how many times I have to tell people that. And I'm no virgin either.”

“No virgin? Well, let's hear it!”

Steve blushed. “Well, there was that time in the tent -”

“The _tent_?”

“Yeah, I told you that story -”

The _tent?_ That's it? I thought _I_ was going to be the inexperienced one...”

Steve ignored the insult and focused on the insinuation. “Inexperienced – why? What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I was thinking we could start with the tent.”

“Bucky -” Steve warned, “I don't know about this...”

But there was already a hand slipping between them, making its way to his groin, which was still slightly effected by all that grinding Bucky was doing a minute before. It wasn't Steve's fault. That was _natural_ and Bucky knew what he was doing, just like he knew what he was doing now.

“Bucky, come on -”

Steve could feel his blood rushing hot again, and from the look in Bucky's eyes, he was feeling it, too. This had all been fun and games before, but flirting with the idea of sex and actually having it were two different things.

“Are you going to chicken out?” Bucky teased, still stroking Steve's involuntarily growing bulge.

“It's not a matter of being _chicken_ ,” Steve answered, disgusted with this adolescent mode of conversation. “It's that it will change _everything_. I don't think you're realizing that.”

“It will change _nothing_ ,” Bucky came back with, frowning darkly. “We live together, share everything, do everything couples do except _fuck_ , and I'm getting tired of it.”

“What's with the language tonight?”

Bucky ignored the comment. “Seriously, when I was getting the mail the other day the landlady told me she had a letter for my boyfriend that got in the wrong box. My _boyfriend_. She knows who you are, too, and clearly she doesn't care that you have a man living with you.” Bucky was now gripping Steve almost possessively, and Steve couldn't help thrusting into it. “You're the only one who gives a shit, Steve. Get over it.”

Steve tried to start a few sentences before giving up. Clearly Bucky was taking the reigns here, and that was good because Steve's knowledge of gay sex really didn't extend beyond the tent. But he definitely wasn't going to be accused of being a chicken again – that was for damn sure.

Bucky was up on his knees, undoing Steve's fly. His cock fell out of his pants embarrassingly, heavy and struggling out of the slit in his briefs. Steve covered his face with a pillow. 

Bucky giggled as he stroked Steve's desperate erection softly with his knuckles. “Look at _you_.”

Steve wasn't looking. But that didn't mean he couldn't feel. Feel himself spring out of his briefs when they were pulled down, feel Bucky's hot breath teasing him, feel his heart racing, feel the warmth and wetness of Bucky's tongue, feel himself enveloped a second later, feel his hips take on a life of their own as they bucked into that mouth – yeah, it was torture, basically.

Suddenly the pillow was ripped from his hands.

“I want you to look at me,” Bucky said, his lips dark pink and shining. “Stop being such a fucking pussy.”

Steve looked down at his glistening cock as Bucky took it in his mouth again, sucking aggressively and turning his eyes upward, challenging Steve to keep watching. Then he was off the couch, pulling his shirt off and throwing it in Steve's breathless face, saying, “I'll be right back.”

“Wha -?” Steve was trying to catch up, figuring out where he was on this sexual roller coaster. He took Bucky's shirt off his face and covered his penis with it, because it was cold and wet and embarrassing. Bucky returned with a tub of vaseline that he slammed on the coffee table and began removing the rest of his clothes.

“Bucky -” Steve put a hand out to shield himself from the wanton nudity. He wasn't fast enough to miss the sight of Bucky's rock-hard and leaking cock jutting straight out at him.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Bucky said, completely out of patience, throwing his jeans, briefs and even socks into a pile on Steve's lap. Then he laid his body over the coffee table, displaying his bare and spread ass to Steve, who was still watching obediently. He spanked himself, glowering and laughing at Steve, who was now clutching the pile of clothes to his cock as if they would protect him.

Shaking his behind around invitingly, he plunged his fingers into the vaseline and extracted a huge glob that he slathered around his tiny, dark, and slightly fuzzy hole. Steve had never expected to know these details about this part of Bucky's anatomy. But now he did. And he couldn't unknow them.

“Are you still watching?” Bucky asked when Steve momentarily turned his eyes to the wall.

“ _Yes!_ ” Steve answered irritably, turning back to see Bucky pushing a finger inside himself. 

He pulled out only to gather more vaseline to push inside, and Steve found himself clearing his throat. Bucky winced as he pushed in again with two fingers. 

“Bucky, don't... don't hurt yourself...” Steve sounded like he was reciting lines from a script he didn't understand.

“Doesn't hurt,” he said, winking back, “feels good.” Then he pushed a third finger inside.

Steve was dumbfounded and open-mouthed as he watched Bucky force himself wide.

“'Kay, I'm ready.” Bucky slapped his own ass again, leaving a greasy hand print. Then he did that obnoxious come-hither shake once more.

Steve was motionless for a few seconds before he remembered how to say words. “Ready for what?”

Bucky looked back at him in disbelief. “What? Do you need a fucking instruction manual? Get over here and fuck my ass.”

Steve set the protective pile of clothes aside and was not surprised to find himself still achingly hard. Who wouldn't be, after Bucky's little performance?

Steve stripped and with a heavy sigh got on his knees behind Bucky, who was already pushing his ass backwards like a homing device seeking its target. 

“Take it easy!” Steve said, pushing him forward onto the coffee table. “We're not on a time limit. Just let me go at my own speed, okay?”

Bucky laid down submissively on the table, seeing that he was getting his way.

Steve's cock was not only ready, it was angry, but the rest of him wasn't. He took the palm of his right hand and traced it up Bucky's spine. Bucky arched into it like a cat. When Steve reached his head he dragged his nails back down, not hard of course, only enough to make Bucky quiver. That was enough. Steve could feel his cheeks getting hot.

“Okay, you ready?”

Bucky let out an adorably soft stream of curse words that basically communicated, “yes, fuck me now you dumb son of a bitch” and Steve decided it was time to oblige him. The wet tip of his cock had been playing kissing games with Bucky's, which was definitely unnerving, and streams of sticky precome remained attached when Steve brought the head of his cock to Bucky's entrance, which still looked unable to handle this intrusion despite the enticing preparations. It was such a tiny little hole.

Steve pressed cautiously, and felt Bucky tense up beneath his palms. Not even the head was in.

“Bucky, I don't know -”

Bucky didn't say anything because there was nothing left to say. The brutal metal left arm reached behind and pulled Steve in. It was all the way to the hilt, leaving them flush against each other and in shock. Bucky was spasming around Steve who still couldn't believe what had just happened.

“Jesus, Buck!” 

The impalement was, honestly, a bit more than Bucky had been gambling for, but what choice did he have, dealing with a partner like Steve? It had taken a year to get Steve to kiss him. They could be there all night with him worrying about the potential problems of putting a dick in an ass.

Once he had accustomed himself to the presence, Bucky started moving his hips to get to that spot inside him. He was still holding on to Steve, basically using him like a really realistic dildo. He finally managed to get Steve's cock punching into his prostate, and was almost cross-eyed from how amazing it was. He had waited long enough for this. Unfortunately, Steve wasn't keen on being a sex toy, and was trying to free himself from the metal claw.

“Excuse me!” Steve shouted, tearing himself out of Bucky's grip. He threw the machine arm off him, and Bucky clasped onto the coffee table, squeezing out of frustration and splintering the wood. 

“Hey!” Steve shouted again, “I'm not going to have sex with you if you're going to destroy our furniture! This isn't _Twilight_ and I'm not a rich vampire. Cool it!”

The reference to the crazy vampire movie they had caught on TV last week did manage to make Bucky laugh off some of his aggressive desire, but Steve playing the authoritarian when Bucky knew how uncomfortable he really was almost made him twice as hot. 

“Are you going to punish me?” he asked. “Show me what I'm in for if I'm bad again.”

“Damn it, Bucky,” and Bucky could feel him getting bigger inside him. And then he was getting fucked for real, finally. Strong hands, wrapped around his hips, were rocking him like an earthquake and he had to remind himself to use only his right hand to hold on to the coffee table. He let the rest of his body sink inward, loose and free, head down and not even minding when he saw that he was drooling all over the table. If he was making noises, he wasn't conscious of them. He could hear Steve, though, and he made a mental note to tease him about it later. 

When Steve finally came undone, Bucky was more worried about the neighbors than the fact that he was being manhandled in a way that was definitely going to leave bruises. No big deal, Bucky thought, they would only be there a few hours. Steve laid over his back almost apologetically as he went off, and Bucky could understand why once the finale had finally taken place.

“Did you just take a piss in my ass?” Bucky asked, not that it wasn't great to be full of whatever unholy amount of liquid had just been deposited inside him.

“Uh... I'm sorry,” Steve answered, coming back to himself, “but this _was_ your idea.”

Steve's slowly softening dick was all that was plugging up the deluge that was threatening to pollute the living room carpet. They pulled apart and the carpet was not saved. 

“Oh, my god.” Steve said, but Bucky just laughed. “I'm glad you think it's hilarious that we have to shampoo the carpet. And this,” Steve went on, pointing at the torn-up coffee table, “just look at this. _Look_ at it!” He got up and walked around to inspect it more closely. 

Bucky was beside himself laughing at the huge naked man standing in the middle of his living room and griping like a cranky grandma. “Are you going to tell me that this is why we can't have nice things? I'm so sorry you finally got laid, Steve.”

“Well, how am I supposed to fix this?” he asked, poking at it.

“Don't. I bet most people would love to have a souvenir from losing their virginity.”

“What about company? Sam's going to think you and I had a battle in here if he saw this.”

“Tell him the truth. Which reminds me...” Bucky leaned over to take his phone out of his discarded pants. 

“Wait – what are you doing?” Steve lifted his head from the coffee table.

“Sam made me promise I'd tell him when I got you out of the closet.”

Steve practically dove to get the phone out of Bucky's hand. “Don't you tell _anybody_ about what we just did! You understand me?”

“Relax, Steve. Everybody knows you're gay. Sam thinks it's sad that you're so worried about it.”

“What do you mean, _everybody_?”

“Well, I wasn't going to tell you about it, because you get so upset whenever there's any mention of my time with _them_...”

Steve crossed his arms. 

“... but I had this weird moment the other day when I realized something kind of funny...”

Steve found it very unlikely that anything about Hydra could be _funny_.

“Well, I used to work a lot of assignments with Agents Rumlow and Rollins, and I would listen to them talk. They were always complaining about someone they worked with from Shield, and I remember thinking they had a peculiar name for him -”

Steve lifted an eyebrow while Bucky suppressed a smile.

“- the Gaytriot.” Bucky couldn't keep from laughing. “And I realized that must have been you. It makes sense that they wouldn't want to say your name around me...”

“Those assholes,” Steve said, earning even more laughter from Bucky. “I swear - I hope you're there when I find that piece-of-shit Brock so you can keep me from beating him to death on sight for what they did to you.”

“Listen to Steve Rogers' potty mouth! Such chivalrous rage! Makes me feel all tingly inside...” Bucky shrugged. “Anyway, even _they_ seemed to sense that you were playing for the other team.”

“What's with the way you're talking tonight?” Steve asked, happy to change the subject.

“What do you mean?”

“The sarcasm, the slang – what happened to the one-syllable responses and the robot voice I've been living with for the past year?”

“Robot voice. That's – that's real sweet, Steve. Great way to talk to your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Yeah...” Bucky said, then looked away shyly. He guessed he probably should slow down. He had just gotten Steve to give up his virginity, maybe he should wait a little while before he started making wedding plans. 

“Anyway – I think seeing you with that girl and feeling so jealous might have knocked something loose. I don't know, maybe I always felt like that about you, and kept it to myself because of the way you are about being gay. Before I saw you on that rooftop, I never even realized that I had a life before Hydra. You must have meant a lot to me if seeing your face had such an effect on me. If it was the only thing they couldn't scrub out of me. So it makes sense, right?”

Steve frowned. “I wish you would have said something. Things would have been different.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe that was what the thing in the tent was all about. I'll bet you were the one to make us promise to keep it a secret, just like you're trying to do now. Am I right?”

Steve banged his head on the wall and shut his eyes. “All right – I am not going to stand here naked and be made to feel like I single-handedly ruined both of our lives at the age of twelve because I didn't want our entire working-class Brooklyn neighborhood to know that I had a crush on another boy -”

“Did you?”

“'course. Didn't want to admit it even to myself, but - yeah.”

Bucky beamed back. As great as it was to see him so happy, Steve was completely drained. 

“Okay, I'm going to bed. You coming?”

“What?” Bucky, who had been lounging back on the couch, sprang upright. “Promise-breaker!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You _know_ what you promised me...”

Steve, wide-eyed and spreading his arms, really had no idea. “What?”

“What I always get when I do what you want, like go to that stupid bar...”

“Just tell me. I'm too tired for guessing games.”

“My _hair_.”

Finally it was Steve's turn to crack up. “Nope. You're not winning this one. I never ever promised you that.”

“Yes, you did!”

“No.” Steve shook his head. “Not tonight I didn't.”

Bucky made an exaggerated pouty face. “Well, you owe me one. And I want a hand job, too. It's not right for you to get off and leave me unsatisfied.”

“Anything else, your majesty? Perhaps a foot massage?”

“That does sound nice,” Bucky answered, laying back down. “We can watch _Some Like it Hot._ You keep talking about it.”

“It would be an appropriate choice, considering the ending.”

Bucky cocked his head.

“You'll see.” Steve said in response, then sighed as he walked to the bathroom to get the brush.

Once again, Bucky was getting his way. Some things never, ever, ever, change.


End file.
